A Parade of Elephants
by mrssosostris
Summary: A story about an over-thinking, introverted child as he grows up in the wake of a personal tragedy.
1. The Elephant's Graveyard

**Chapter 1: The Elephant's Graveyard**

Scuffed blue shoes with silver buckles pounded the sidewalk of Westerville's Cremona Drive as the short walk home from school drew to an end. The small child to whom they belonged was bent double under the weight of his enormous Monsters Inc. backpack, looking exactly like a bipedal turtle save for the unruly mop of black curls that bounced around his face as he walked down the street. The imposing set of cast iron gates at the very end of the cul-de-sac had been left ajar, revealing a long cobblestone drive edged with conical topiaries, marigolds, fuchsias, _Colocasia_ and roses. Somehow, everything appeared sloppily scattered and perfectly placed at the same time, each exquisite flower trying too hard not to try too hard.

These impressive grounds bore testament to the care and expertise of one Michael Anderson. In his infinite ability to seek out the best in life, the man had hired the pricey and fashionable Mr. John L. Sullivan to manicure the already flawless lawns and flowerbeds into a state of almost preternatural submission, everything imperfect enough to seem perfect. The garden was what the guests would compliment first, their eyes lapping up the carefully ordered disorder that Michael always described as 'Capability Brown in his Sunday best blasted into the twenty-first century, _sans_ hermits'. Each visitor would attempt to replicate it on their own plots, but Sullivan didn't just work for anybody. He didn't work for free either, and few could afford the premium that lawyer and former State Senator Michael Anderson was reputedly willing to pay. That garden was the best in the Westerville, and everyone who was anyone knew it.

Blue shoes came to a halt where that drive met the street, their owner looking beyond the bright flowers and flawless lawns towards the magnificent portico of an imposing three storey house. Hazel eyes blinked through curly hair, the empty driveway and locked porch telling him that both parents had yet to return home. After a moment of stillness, the shoes regained their pace as suddenly as they had lost it, little legs carrying little feet across the perfectly striped lawn towards the three tall trees that grew in a small wooded area beside the boundary wall. The child was soon little more than blue dot on the stripy green landscape.

* * *

><p>Though the scalene patch of scrub was demarcated by nothing more than the three white willows that grew at its corners, eight-year-old Blaine Anderson knew better than anyone that its understated appearance concealed a greater significance. Under the cover of the tall leafy trees (well away from the prying eyes of visitors) stood a small green shed. In it was stored, among other things, a sky blue Raleigh bicycle, several skipping ropes, a glockenspiel with rainbow keys, a model aircraft carrier and three plastic Pokémon figurines, as well as a decent platoon of Action Men and a Red Power Ranger named Barbie (who, Blaine insisted, was actually pink if you looked hard enough). Together these items formed an impressive display, their bright colours punctuated by the messy 'BMA' markings that had been scrawled across each toy in a messy, juvenile hand.<p>

Once the toys had been set out to his satisfaction, the child completed the ensemble with Babar, who had arrived from his Great Aunt Ruby in France on the very day of his birth. Babar carried all the typical hallmarks of a greatly loved and much-cuddled toy: his trunk was secured by a rainbow of different threads (the result of a number of hasty repairs by the perpetually busy Karen Anderson), and his once downy fur had become matted with the detritus of a child's affection. Unlike the other toys, Babar did not sport a BMA tattoo. Nor, indeed, had he ever resided in the shed. This was because, as Blaine himself would tell you, Babar was a particularly particular elephant. He had, after all, firmly insisted that his body remain unbranded when Blaine was wielding that fateful permanent marker, and every day he ate half of Blaine's carrot sticks for lunch (to improve his eyesight) and rode howdah-style to school inside the Monsters Inc. backpack. That was why he was Blaine's best friend: he always had the courage to stand up for what he wanted.

Babar was also the spark for Blaine's love for all things pachyderm. His mother was often forced to dispel the rumours that her son's fixation was a manifestation of Asperger's, insisting that it was 'nothing more than a cute interest that he'd grow out of with time'. That's not to say it hadn't worried her in the past, but tests had shown that Blaine was simply an introverted but fiercely intelligent little boy who barely scraped the edge of the autistic spectrum. It had been such a relief for Karen when the Westerville rumour mill diverted its attentions onto the rather sudden changes undergone by Double-D DDebbie's chest area since her divorce settlement last month- who'dve thought that diet and exercise could do so much, and so quickly too? Karen suspected that DDebbie would be renamed either Ebbie or Febbie as soon as a reputable source revealed the true extent of the augmentation to the rest of the town.

While his wife tried to supress talk of her son's hobby, Michael realised that the almost-too-cute charm of 'Blaine's Crazy Obsession' could work to his advantage. The story became a widely-known feature of his rallies, and he prided himself on the perfectly-timed eye roll that punctuated the anecdote each time he told it. It was exactly the kind of tale he needed, one that would convince the electorate that he was _'Mike' Superdad-and-Man-of-the-People Anderson_ rather than just another sanctimonious coffer-coddler blinkered by the privilege of an education at Yale. The technique was certainly working and his approval ratings in the polls were soaring; everyone in Ohio's 12th Congressional District seemed to know that 'Mike' Anderson was a good man devoted to his wife and that lovable elephant-obsessed son. Soon, very soon, Michael Anderson Jr. would be set to enter national politics, just as his father had hoped.

The one time Blaine himself was asked about the passion defended by his mother and appropriated by his father, he simply stated that elephants made his 'heart glow gold'. It was an all-consuming passion that, like a well-stoked fire, released a host of excited effervescent sparks each time it was fed a new book, Disney movie or nature documentary. It grew stronger each time he looked into those wise caramel eyes on the 'Large Mammal' page of his _Visual Factfinder_, and it burned with increasing ferocity each time he watched the _Electrocuting an Elephant (1903)_ and _Ritual Funeral Behaviours of Elephants_ videos on the family's brand new version of Microsoft Encarta. He'd never seen those videos clearly; they'd always been obscured by the saline mist that clouded his vision each time he witnessed scenes of such intense sadness. Blaine Anderson loved elephants, and that was how it had been for as long as anyone could remember.

* * *

><p>The Elephant's Graveyard, the name by which the patch of land under the three tall willow trees had come to be known, had far hazier origins than the fixation itself. Whenever asked, Michael would cheerily fetch <em>The Jumbo Dictionary of English Idiom<em>, flick midway through 'E' then down to 'Elephant', and read the entry under **Elephant/ Elephant's/ Elephants' graveyard** in his soft but commanding voice:

"(1) A place where, according to legend, older elephants instinctively direct themselves when they reach a certain age. They then die there alone, far from the group.

(2) _(Colloq.)_ An accumulation of large miscellanea stored and left."

Michael, always one to appreciate the exquisite beauty of a well-crafted double meaning, would explain that the shed was both a repository for Blaine's toys and the place where the rather solitary boy would eke out the hours between home time and dinner away from his family unit. He would then smack the dictionary shut, shake his head and chuckle at his own inventiveness, before returning to his seat at the head of the table to preside over proceedings with the proper amount of effortless authority.

Karen knew differently. She was almost certain that the name had originated from Blaine himself after a home screening of _The Lion King_, a day that had held such potential for disaster that she had not related a single detail of it to her husband. It started after she had deposited her four-year-old son in front of the VHS while she hosted a luncheon for 'The Girls'. Everything had been set to impress, and she'd even prepared a buffet complete with oh so fashionable crayfish canapés and chocolate with chilli (even though she herself had never been one for fancy food). She liked leaving her child alone even less than the caviar she spread over her freshly baked baguette, but she had to uphold the family's reputation within the community if Michael was ever to make it into Congress. It was a nothing but a small sacrifice for the sake of a dozen useful contacts and a good reputation.

When she returned to check on Blaine an hour or so later, the boy (and Babar) had completely vanished. After diverting her friends with a swift mention of the new upstairs Jacuzzi (because how would she look if this got out?), she bolted out into the garden, teetering on her mauve satin high heels which were bound to get _completely_ ruined by the muddy ground. After profuse sweating, cursing and general dishevelment, she detected a movement between the three trees at the edge of their plot. Moments later, her son blinked through his hair as he emerged into the golden sunlight, right hand firmly lodged in Babar's, excitedly telling her that he'd found the elephant's graveyard. Karen had scolded him for running off before locking them all inside the house to prevent further disaster, all the while giggling inwardly at the sheer extent of the boy's imagination. Within moments, she was changed, primped and sweet-smelling, and rejoined her guests in the bathroom with all the calm self-possession of a seasoned Emmy hostess. The Girls cooed at the one-off Valentino she'd thrown on, all mentally adding 'costume change' to their checklist of essential hosting behaviours. She could see them seething in jealousy beneath the calm of their cosmetic-caked exteriors.

That day had three effects. The first was that Karen inadvertently became best in show, an accolade she held for 14 whole months until Fishy-Lips Francine (plumping gone wrong) converted her spare craft room into a 16-seat home cinema. Of course, Karen could see that it was nothing more than a flagrant display of vulgar one-upmanship, but she cooed along appreciatively with the other girls while they pretended to understand the non-subtitled Pathé film Francine had selected. The second effect was the planned construction of a wall to surround the property. It was to be a continuous line of stonework broken only by an imposing set of cast iron gates, designed to keep imaginative children in and undesirables out. Local jealousy was rife and the house soon became known as 'Castle Karen', a moniker that endured until the other housewives persuaded their husbands to build taller walls and more elaborate gates.

The third effect, and perhaps the one of greatest significance to the Andersons, was that the name 'Elephant's Graveyard' stuck more firmly to that patch of land than the mud had to Karen's dustbin-bound Jimmy Choos.

* * *

><p>Karen returned from her dreary afternoon drinks session at Jane-the-Pain's to the common sight of her eight-year-old sitting in the Elephant's Graveyard, his back to the house. As she drew closer to him, she heard a pentatonic melody from the glockenspiel and the muffled murmurings of a child at play. She smiled to herself.<p>

"Abu," the child said to Babar, "Take Princess Jasmine to a place where she will be safe. You're an _elphas maximus_ so you only have small ears, you'll never fly like Dumbo. You'll have to walk. I suggest to Mandalay. Be safe, there are only 50,000 of your species left. And protect Jasmine too, there's only one of her. If anyone attacks you, remember that you can charge at 50 kilometres per hour. Stomp all over her nasty bullies. They used to kill criminals by way of elephant, you know, and those horrible boys are so mean to her. I'm sure you'll be strong enough to keep her safe. Best of luck, dear."

With that, Blaine pressed a kiss to Babar's trunk and positioned the Pink (Red) Power Ranger on the elephant's back. He ran around with both toys in his hands, not noticing his mother standing at the edge of the graveyard. Karen briefly reflected on the moment when she'd insisted that he buy the Monsters Inc. backpack rather than the Jasmine one he'd really wanted.

She cleared her throat.

"Blaine, your father's home, it's time for dinner. And it's Friday so we'll have guests later."

Blaine snapped out of his game in an instant and smiled shyly at his mother. He silently helped her pack all the toys (with the exception of Babar) into the shed, where they would be in absolutely no danger of cluttering the house. He then picked up his backpack, placed one hand in Babar's and the other in Karen's, and followed his mother through the French doors that led directly into the dining room. A piping-hot dinner had already been spread across the table.

* * *

><p>"Hey Blainey-boy," said Michael, ruffling his son's hair as he passed his father en route to his seat. "Make any new friends at school?"<p>

Blaine smiled sheepishly, but said nothing.

"What will we have to do to break you out of that shell, huh? Are the other kids teasing you?"

Blaine shook his head, even though they all knew that the other boys mocked him relentlessly for being a nerd with weirdo hair who came to school with a dumb soft toy in his backpack. He hated the uproarious laughter that followed him through the corridors like a shadow of sound, but Blaine knew how upset Babar would be if he was left at home. He also knew that those boys could never understand a friendship like the one he had with Babar, so he hid behind his hair and carried on, his tummy lurching with every insult that came his way.

Michael sighed.

"You're such a good boy, Blaine. I'm sorry that we haven't been around much lately, but Daddy has to make sure the daddies vote for him and Mommy has to make sure the mommies do."

His face settled as he paused, but soon became animated again when he remembered something.

"Look, I got you a present."

With that, Michael reached into his inside pocket. His hand returned, closed around an object hidden within his palm. When the hand came to a rest on the tabletop and unclasped, Blaine saw that there were in fact two objects. Two porcelain elephants, half red and half blue and starry. His eyes widened and a smile crept across his face.

"You see these?"

Blaine nodded.

"These are Republican elephants. That's the party I belong to and work for. If the election goes well, I'll go to Washington as the representative for the people in our district. Cool, huh? We were giving these little guys away for free outside my campaign office today so I grabbed two for you, even though you don't like elephants _in the slightest_."

He chuckled as his son smiled at the teasing.

"What are you going to call them?"

Blaine considered his options for a moment before whispering, "Trunky and Heffalump."

Michael and Karen smiled identical, perfect smiles. "Heffalump is obviously from Winnie the Pooh", reasoned Karen, remembering the many nights she'd spent reading AA Milne's stories to the boy. "I don't, however, recall a Trunky."

A wide, toothy grin leaked across Blaine's face. "The Enormous Crocodile bites Trunky's leg to get his attention. He tells him about his diabolical scheme to eat a child. Trunky tells him he should be made into a stew. He's one of the Crocodile's adversaries, along with Muggle-Wump, Roly-Poly and Humpy-Rumpy. He's the most heroic, he's the one that tosses the Enormous Crocodile into the sun before he can eat any children."

Karen smiled again, savouring the rare instance of her son speaking at such length. She was wholly unsurprised that he had already tracked down Roald Dahl's only elephant in the few weeks he'd owned the complete works, and barely blinked at his use of the words 'adversary' and 'diabolical' within seconds of each other. Blaine was such a clever boy, she only wished he'd apply himself to other, non-elephantine pursuits like football, painting or archery. He could be so accomplished, she was sure of it. At present, the only thing he did besides voraciously absorbing facts about elephants was thrash around on the family's decorative grand piano, and what use was there in that?

Her reverie was broken by her husband.

"So tell me Blainey, which one's the girl and which one's the boy? They'll probably have lots of Humpy-Rumpy and make some baby Republicans."

"Michael!" Karen exclaimed, desperately scanning her son's quizzical expression for any glimmers of understanding, "We'll have none of that. He. Is. Eight. What will people say?"

"If he's anything like me, we should be getting him ready as soon as possible. He's in for a wild life, let me tell you," Michael responded, winking suggestively at his wife.

Karen scowled in response, but Michael could tell she was just as amused by Humpy-Rumpy as he was. Both looked across at their confused son and burst out laughing.

* * *

><p>The jovial mood that only ever came about when all three Andersons were together was soon disrupted by someone ringing the buzzer at the gate, a precursor to the unwelcome intrusion of public life into their little sanctuary. The three dirty plates were hidden in the kitchen, Blaine was ushered upstairs, and the presence of the real child behind Michael's favourite anecdote was gone as quickly as the laughter in the Andersons' eyes. Their playfulness was swept into the corners of their souls as easily as the toys had been hidden in the green shed, and the man and his wife underwent their transformation into the venerable power couple seen in campaign photos across the district. <em>Mike Anderson is a Friend for <em>_**You**_.

As glasses clinked, champagne flowed and gossip about gay sons, bankruptcy and unplanned pregnancies was banded about to uproarious laughter from everyone, Blaine sat alone in his bedroom with his father's CD of Saint-Saëns' _'The Carnival of the Animals'_ playing on his Hi-Fi. Two small porcelain elephants joined Babar as the parade made its way across the sandy carpet, a stately march that led them towards the bedside lamp that was, as anyone in the know could tell you, a golden Savannah sun.

* * *

><p>Late that evening when the house was beginning to settle back into its role as a family home, Karen Anderson found her son curled up on his carpet clutching the three elephants to his chest. She lifted him up and tucked him into his Elmer bedcovers, stroking the curls away from his forehead before planting a kiss between his closed eyes. She switched off the sun, whitewashing the room in dim moonlight.<p>

"Michael," she said in bed that night.

"Mmmm?"

"I'm worried about Blaine."

"He'll be alright in the end, Karen, he's a good boy. He'll grow into himself eventually."

"I hope so," his wife replied, "I really hope so."

A pause.

"Do you think it's because he's an only child?"

"I'm certain that's a part of it," her husband replied with a tinge of sadness to his voice, "But I think the root cause is that damned mind of his. He's so exceptional that it's hard for him to relate to others, and even harder for others to relate to him. He just thinks so differently. He'll get used to himself eventually. He'll get a fantastic wife, a great career, the happiness he deserves. It'll just take time."

"How can you be so sure?" his wife asked.

He took a moment to roll over and take her hands in his.

"Because I was him," he stated simply, "Minus the elephants, of course."


	2. Coot, Babar, Lizard and Toad

**Warning: Some abusive language/ violence  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2: Coot, Babar, Lizard and Toad<strong>

Scuffed green sneakers padded down Cremona Drive for the final time that school year. An electronic key was slotted into the control box to the left hand side of the set of gates, the twisted metalwork swinging back to release the familiar scent of those beautiful flowers. Eleven-year-old Blaine Anderson breathed a sigh of relief; he'd passed the Fifth Grade, meaning that elementary school was finally over. He'd soon be getting the new start he so desperately needed.

That new start, Blaine had decided, was going to come from Collège Saint Kentigern. Located across the Hoover Reservoir in New Albany, it was widely regarded as being the best boys' middle school in the area, The Andersons' personal tour, led by an impossibly grown-up student in the Eighth Grade, had started with the large brick building in the centre of the campus. Blaine's eyes had widened as he'd blinked down at the reflection of his shoes in the polished wood flooring; he'd been in houses like this, but never a _school_. He'd spent the subsequent months practically bursting out of his skin in excitement, with daydreams of beautiful grounds, well-appointed science laboratories and triple-height bookshelves pulling him through those dreary final weeks of elementary school.

As if the school itself wasn't cool enough, he'd _totally_ aced the admissions test. He, Blaine Anderson, had come top in every paper except math (in which he'd come second), making him that year's Hansken Scholar. Though the scholarship awarded a grant equal to half fees, the Andersons had insisted on paying the full rate for Blaine's tuition; both Karen and Michael knew what people would (wrongly) conclude if it got out that a Congressman's son had been granted a cut-price ride by a school wishing to gain a national reputation. Blaine therefore became the first scholar to decline a grant in Saint Kentigern's long and illustrious history. The prize did, however, mean that he'd be in all the top sets and that he'd get the privilege of wearing a gold and red scholar's tie with his smart green blazer, crisp white shirt and pressed black trousers. Best of all, though, the Hansken Scholar was entitled to free bi-weekly tuition in a musical instrument of his choice: Blaine had, of course, selected the piano in a heartbeat.

The summer couldn't pass quickly enough.

* * *

><p>Blaine's thoughts of challenging lessons and smart school uniforms were interrupted by the honking of a car horn. He turned around and looked back down the driveway towards the black gates.<p>

"Hey son," a weary-looking Michael Anderson said as he leaned out of the driver's window, "You wouldn't happen to have one of the gate keys would you? I must have left mine in the Columbus office."

Blaine rolled his eyes good-humouredly before reaching into his pocket for the plastic fob. Michael seemed to forget his keys each time he came home, his mind hopping between thoughts of upcoming votes, unconstitutional legislation (mostly the work of those damned liberals) and the all-important opinion polls. Blaine passed the fob (attached to a blue elephant keychain) through one of the holes in the ironwork, and stood to one side as the gates swung open. He then climbed into the passenger seat of his father's Maybach for the short ride up the driveway.

"Is mommy home?" Blaine asked, looking across at his father.

"I'm not sure," Michael replied, "But I hope she is because I leave for the red-eye in a few hours and I have to speak to her before I go."

"Why's that?" Blaine asked, curiosity spreading across his face.

"It's nothing much, I just have to tell her that your grandfather is coming to stay this weekend."

Blaine groaned.

"We'll have less of that, young man," Michael said, chuckling inwardly at the similarities between himself and his son. "Besides, he'll only be here for a night."

"Mommy won't be happy. Grandpa's always telling her to hire a cook because he doesn't think her food is fit for his stupid shrivelled old body."

Michael struggled to contain his laughter. His son was right; self-importance was the beginning and end of his father's character.

"Yes, well, he's family. And he does a lot for my political standing. And he is contributing very generously into your trust fund. I think we can stand him for a couple of days. Besides, I'm sure he'll be delighted to hear about your scholarship."

With that, the car came to a standstill outside the gleaming white portico of the Anderson residence. Father and son climbed out of the car, before unlocking the door of the house and clambering inside.

* * *

><p>Three days later, after Michael had left for and returned from Washington, a buzzing cut through the silence of the house. Before long, Michael Sr. was stepping over the threshold, his eyes darting around the hallway in search of something to criticise.<p>

"Bit dingy in here, isn't it?" he began, "Those trees outside could do with a good old prune."

"We like to keep the house surrounded by vegetation to discourage the journalists," Karen lied smoothly, glossing over the fact that the trees were actually kept tall because Blaine enjoyed romping through the golden-green shade pretending to be a forest elephant. She knew that Michael Sr. regarded any type of fun as pointless and time-thirsty, so kept the truth to herself.

"Yes, well, I suppose that would be a consideration," Michael Sr. said, mightily impressed that his son was garnering so much attention so early on in his political career. Everyone in The Hamptons would be hearing about this, he would make sure of it. He allowed his mind to drift onto how things would be when Michael rose up into the Senate, the goal they'd settled on when his son was four.

After a moment's musing, Michael Sr. continued the conversation. "Speaking of The Press, how is that revenue bill going down? I have to say that I'm in complete agreement with the proposed tax reforms to favour of high-income families, it all seems-"

Much to the old man's consternation, Karen cut him off mid-rant. He had devoted many hours of his life to questioning why his son had married such an impertinent woman, and had yet to find a single redeeming aspect of her character.

"There'll be plenty of time to discuss that after dinner." she said without any intention of reminding him of that promise. She liked to keep politics locked out of the house as much as possible, if only for the sake of the family's collective sanity.

Michael Sr. huffed in outrage for a moment before remembering that his son's household had a third member. "Where is the boy? It's been nearly three years since I last saw him. That was when I came here right after the election, remember?"

Blaine emerged into the hallway as his existence finally came up in the conversation. Michael cast his eyes up and down his lanky frame. He hadn't grown much, he thought, but he'd certainly matured: he'd thinned out, and the pudgy cheeks of three years ago had given way to defined cheekbones and a defined jaw line. His teeth could use bit of work, he thought, but that could all be dealt with in time.

"Well," he said to his son and daughter-in-law (over Blaine's head), "Isn't he developing into a fine-looking young chappie? Shame about his gawkiness, but I suppose that's just a consequence of his age."

Blaine fidgeted in discomfort.

"Stand up straight, boy!" the grandfather thundered, never needing much temptation to use his booming voice, "You'll never get anywhere in life looking like a wet mop. And that hair wants cutting- it makes you appear vain and effeminate."

Michael Jr. had edged closer to his son, ruffling his hair to calm the boy down. Even though Blaine was a good, well-behaved kid, his father was well aware that he could have a wild temper if faced with sufficient provocation.

Karen surveyed her husband and son from her position across the room, her face flaming red with silent anger. Though she was sure he'd not meant anything by it, there was something about her father-in-law's insult that bounced around her head for an uncomfortable few moments. She abandoned the thought before it could bud into anything more, focusing instead on the food awaiting judgement on the dining table. Why did her husband have to be descended from such a miserable old coot? And poor, poor Blaine, why did Michael Sr. feel the need to be so tough on him?

* * *

><p>Dinner was consumed noiselessly as the three Andersons attempted to ignore the disgusted expression that passed across the old man's face with every bite he took. The silence grew pregnant, everyone waiting for someone to shatter it. Unfortunately, the person to make the first move was also the one who understood least about dynamic of the Anderson household.<p>

"So Karen," the voice boomed as half-chewed food scattered across the table, "When do you plan on having more children? You're still young enough, and the boy must be less of a handful these days."

Blaine, who'd had his first proper health class the week before he'd left elementary school, screwed his face up in disgust. His closed eyes caused him to miss the identical expression of sadness that unfurled itself across his parents' faces.

"That's not going to happen any time soon," she replied. "Michael is so busy with his career, and Blaine's starting his new school in a few weeks." It wasn't a complete untruth; she'd always had an inkling that adolescence was going to prove a challenging time for her son.

"No," her husband confirmed, "There aren't any plans like that. I'm sure Blaine will be able to make up for it by giving us lots of grandchildren, eh son?"

By this point, Blaine had practically squirmed off his chair with sheer mortification. Karen was in a similar position, the embarrassment she felt on behalf her son tempering the intense sadness she could feel stirring within her own heart.

"Well, good," Michael Sr. said, oblivious to the discomfort he had caused, "We wouldn't want to cast a good old name like Anderson into the winds of obscurity."

With that, the conversation moved to more comfortable topics like the reason why Blaine had not been top in maths and the Andersons' plans for a sunroom at the back of the already sprawling property. To the relief of everyone, the visit ended the next morning when the old man left for Philadelphia, muttering something about problems brewing in the logistical branch of Anderson International. The house brightened noticeably as the chauffeur-driven Audi swept down the driveway and onto the street. It'd probably be another three years until they saw the man again, and even then it would be three years too soon.

* * *

><p>The long summer days dragged on, and Blaine's wish for the vacation to pass as uneventfully as possible seemed to be coming true. Michael was away in Washington more and more, leaving the house perceptibly incomplete. Karen was also busy, attending (albeit reluctantly) a multitude of garden parties and open-air performances put on by the Ohio State Opera in Columbus. Blaine felt lonelier than ever, spending the greater part of his days in the elephant's graveyard with ropey old Babar and the Pink Power Ranger (though he'd never admit that he played with such babyish toys to anybody).<p>

Despite the normalcy of the elephant's graveyard, changes were hitting Blaine thick and fast: a trip to the optician's had revealed the source of all those terrible headaches he'd been having recently, and several weeks of preparatory orthodontic work had culminated in the pair of shining braces that now glinted across his teeth. When Michael came home for the weekend after four weeks away in the capital, he could scarcely believe that the kid with glasses, braces and brand new cellphone was his very own little boy.

And then, ten days later, came the two biggest changes of all, one a direct consequence of the other.

* * *

><p>It all started with a single word.<p>

"Fag."

Blaine had barely noticed it as he continued down Main Street towards the convenience store, assuming it was someone calling over a friend or something. But then a different, higher pitched voice rang out, too piercing to be missed.

"Hey, don't ignore us Fag. Or are your thoughts too occupied with the idea of taking it up the ass?"

What were they talking about? Who was Fag?

Blaine looked across towards the source of the noise. To his horror, he saw that the shouts had come from two kids that had graduated from his elementary school two years previous. Two kids that were looking right back at him with hostile expressions covering their faces. Their names, he remembered, were Rupert and Norris, though in his head he had always referred to them as Lizard and Toad. Lizard and Toad, Rupert and Norris, were not friends exactly, though they did have a symbiotic treaty of mutual protection and were very seldom seen apart: while Norris (The Toad) was dim-witted but tall and bulky, Rupert (The Lizard) was of a scrawny build which he compensated for with his creativity, which he dedicated exclusively to tormenting others. Together, Blaine realised with a shiver, they made the ultimate bully.

"Haha, he's got glasses and braces now so he's a nerd _as well as_ a fag," Toad jibed, apparently failing to spot that he himself had braces while Rupert wore a pair of wire-framed glasses on the end of his upturned nose. 'Fag', it transpired, was their favourite insult; it made them feel like they were becoming real men like their fathers, and it had quickly become a mainstay of their repertoire.

"Hand over your _purse_, Faggynerdnerdyfag," Toad demanded in a booming voice, laughing at the inventiveness of the made-up name he'd come up with on the spot. And people said he wasn't smart…

Blaine froze, remembering a certain precious elephant who'd insisted on making the trip to the store with him that day.

"Yeah, buttboy, hand it over," Rupert reiterated, his voice squeaky with pubescent hormones. "I suppose you should take it as a blessing you haven't grown _at all_ in the years since we last saw you – it'll be easier for you to take it up the ass and even easier for people to beat you into your rightful place." Rupert's elder brother had recently given him a crude description of homosexual acts, and the boy was keen to demonstrate his worldly wisdom to his hefty companion.

Blaine desperately cast his eyes around Main Street for anyone who could help him. Unfortunately, it was a weekday and the vast majority of the town's population had commuted into Columbus for work. Realising the game was up, he reluctantly handed his bag to Lizard, his pulsing brain reasoning that the scraggier boy would do less damage than Hulk Jr.

With an obsequious smile worthy of his reptilian nickname, Lizard unzipped Blaine's green rucksack and grabbed the largest item it contained. Babar was pulled into the air to the sound of two different but equally cruel cackles.

Horror spread across Blaine's face.

"Hey Norris, he's still playing with this piece of shit. I bet it smells real bad after all these years. He probably tries to fuck it or something."

Rupert brought Babar to his nose and pretended to pass out from an overwhelming odour. Blaine knew Babar smelt fine; he'd only just returned from the thorough wash he had every month.

"We should probably destroy this health hazard once and for all, eh Norris?" Lizard said, looking towards the hulk for approval.

Toad grunted affirmatively, his facial expression reminiscent of a Roman Emperor condemning a gladiator to death by lion.

After receiving the go-ahead, Lizard tugged hard on Babar's left leg. To Blaine's immense relief, the eleven year old stitching stood fast and the boy gave up. If giving up meant focusing his attentions elsewhere, that is.

After a few seconds of peace, Lizard's beady eyes honed in on the loose threads that secured the trunk. He performed the amputation with a swift pluck, before throwing the severed proboscis onto the street where it joined the battered carcass. After Toad had contributed a few stomps, Lizard snarled, "Next time, it'll be you." With that, the two teenagers laughed their way up the street, leaving a trembling Blaine to recover the remains of his cherished childhood toy. Tears stung his eyes as the boys vanished into the distance and he collapsed onto the ground, letting out a series of loud sobs as soon as the pair had travelled out of earshot.

* * *

><p>A few moments later, Blaine felt a hand on his shoulder. He flinched away, terrified that Lizard and Toad had come back to finish what they'd started, and braced himself for a kick that never came. He gazed up, blinking the salty mist out of his eyes. Once his vision had cleared, he saw two arrestingly green eyes twinkling down at him. His stomach gave an involuntary lurch as a hand reached down for him to take.<p>

"Hey, I'm Orrin."

"I – I – I'm Blaine."

"Those guys giving you grief?"

Blaine cast his eyes over Orrin's face, taking in the slicked back blonde hair, jagged cheekbones, gleaming white teeth and concerned expression. He concluded that it was safe to talk.

"Yeah, they were at my elementary school two years ago. They called me some names and threatened to beat me up."

"It must've been pretty bad to make you cry like that," Orrin said, simultaneously asking a hundred questions and none at all.

"They called me a nerd. It's fine, they're kinda right."

"Did they call you anything else? You seem pretty shaken up."

"Yeah, they called me Fag, whatever that is." Blaine took a deep breath before deciding to tell Orrin the real reason for why he was crying so hard. "The main reason I'm upset, though, is because they went through my bag and crushed the toy elephant I've had since I was born."

Orrin gasped before leaning down to give Blaine a hug. Blaine gripped him tightly, not wanting to let go of the comfort he so sorely needed.

"How old are you?" he asked, Blaine still clinging to his shoulders.

"I'll be twelve in next month," came the response.

"Ah, I'm nearly fourteen, so I'm two grades ahead of you. I'm just going into my last year at Blenton before I start at Westerville East next fall. I hope to make the football team, so I'm going into intensive training this year in preparation," Orrin said, trying to make conversation. "Who knows, maybe it can get me into college."

"I'm starting at Saint Kentigern's next week," Blaine said, feeling somewhat disappointed that the other boy wouldn't be at his new school. A comfortable silence fell between the two.

"Come with me," Orrin said, transporting both boys back into the present, "I'm spending the summer working at a shop on this street. I consider myself a dab hand with a needle and thread, so I'll try my best to fix up that elephant of yours."

Blaine's habitual wariness of strangers simply wasn't present with Orrin; he had felt completely safe as soon as the other boy had opened his mouth. He followed Orrin down the street before they came to a stop outside Horton's, the famous tailor's shop that catered for the wealthiest businessmen in Westerville. Michael Anderson himself liked to wear Horton three-pieces in Washington, perhaps the ultimate attestation of their superior quality.

"Here we are," Orrin announced.

Blaine gaped up at the gilded shop front, hugely impressed that Orrin worked in the smartest establishment on the parade. A bell chimed as the door closed behind them. Before long, they were seated at a table in the back of the shop, Blaine watching as Orrin carefully reattached the trunk with threads of assorted colours. He then made a small slit in Babar's skin and poked some stuffing inside, before sewing everything back together with a neat line of grey stitches.

Blaine inspected Babar's skin, astonished that he actually appeared healthier than he had before the ordeal. He looked up at the boy facing him.

"Thanks, Orrin. So much."

"You're so welcome," the boy replied, "But I think we need to discuss why the little guy was in your backpack in the first place." Blaine suddenly found the mahogany table the most fascinating thing in the entire world.

"I don't have any friends," he muttered, voicing for the first time a fact that had been bothering him all summer.

"That's not true," replied the other boy.

Blaine blinked up through his glasses and curly hair.

"You have me."

Blaine's stomach lurched for the umpteenth time that hour. He had a friend. Who could talk. Who didn't live in a rucksack or a green shed.

"And because I'm your friend, I'm going to tell you what that word means. The f-word. The one those boys said to you."

"What, f-u-c-k? I know what that is." Blaine responded, his cheeks glowing red.

"Uh, no, I meant f-a-g actually," Orrin clarified.

"Oh, then no, I don't know what that means," Blaine said, feeling many more than two years younger than the other boy.

Green eyes stared directly into hazel, but there was something swimming behind their strong gaze that Blaine couldn't quite understand.

"It's a bad word for gay people." Orrin said simply. He took a deep breath. "People like me."

"Oh," said Blaine, his mouth hanging open, "So you're gay then?"

"Yeah. I came out, told everyone, two months ago actually. Kind of early, I suppose, but better to give people a while to accept it, right?"

Blaine had never met a homosexual in real life before, and the few he'd seen on the TV had always been leather-clad men with lisping speech, dyed hair and affected gestures. None of them had looked or sounded anything like Orrin.

"That's okay, isn't it? I mean, a lot of people are uncom-"

"It's fine, Orrin." Blaine interrupted, finally finding his voice. Orrin was so nice after all, why should it matter who he was attracted to? "I was just a bit surprised, that's all. I mean, you don't _look _-"

"I don't look gay?"

Blaine nodded.

"Blaine, gay people come in all shapes and sizes, just like everything else in nature. As Quentin Crisp once said, 'Some toughs are really queer, and some queers are really tough.' I'm not going to mince around on a cloud of rainbows belting out showtunes just because I like guys, not that there'd be anything wrong with me if I did. I like football and I like sewing, it's completely fine that I enjoy both."

Blaine took a moment to digest the information before a worrying thought made itself known to him.

"So those boys, they thought that I was… that I'm… that I'm gay?"

"It's always hard to tell with troglodytes like them, but I would guess not. It's a pretty generic insult because it's obviously _so_ weird and _soooo _gross to like boys instead of girls. They were probably just banding it about because it's something their parents say in response to unsavoury things. Kids tend to be pretty bad at thinking for themselves."

Blaine chuckled because he himself had thought the exact same thing, but Orrin remained serious.

"But Blaine, if you do think you're gay, it doesn't matter. Gay, straight and anything in between, it's all fine, it's all normal."

"I'm not attracted to guys, Orrin," Blaine said. After all, he'd never thought of a boy like _that_ ever in his life. He hadn't thought about girls that way either, but there hadn't been too many floating around his all-male elementary school for him to look at. Nor, he imagined, would there be any at Saint Kentigern's, it being single sex and all. He'd just have to wait until college preparatory. The three years would fly by, he was sure of it.

Orrin smiled and nodded. "That's completely fine."

A companionable pause.

"So, do you want to go for a coffee?"

"I'm not really a fan of hot drinks," Blaine replied, secretly wishing that he was as grown up and sophisticated as Orrin.

"What about ice cream?"

Blaine grinned widely at his new friend. "I'm _so_ there."

* * *

><p>The following few hours were full of deep conversation about school uniforms (Orrin had never had one), parental occupations ("Your parents are police sergeants?", "Your dad's a <em>Congressman<em>?") and Disney movies (both boys loved them), until the pleasant chatter was interrupted by an incoming call to Blaine's cellphone. It was his mother, wondering where he had gone.

"I have to go home," Blaine said sadly.

"Here, type your number into my phone and I'll ring it back so you can have my number too," Orrin replied, "I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot of each other."

"Done," Blaine said a moment later, handing the phone back to Orrin. "I'll see you around, I guess."

He walked back out onto Main Street into the gold-tinted gloaming of the summer evening, his mind racing with thoughts of ice cream, sewing needles and tailor's shops… And blonde hair. And green eyes. And gleaming teeth.

Babar would be spending a great deal more time indoors now that Blaine had a friend who was held together by skin and bones rather than glue and thread.


	3. Seeing the Elephant

**Chapter 3: Seeing the Elephant**

Black-socked feet scuffed their way across navy carpet, absent-mindedly etching a series of lines and swirls into the thick blue pile. Hands clasped and unclasped in front of a slightly trembling body, and hazel eyes blinked without really seeing anything at all. Nearby, a green blazer had been thrown haphazardly onto a desk chair, and a kit bag (neatly labelled 'BMA') rested beside the tall armoire that stood against one of the navy walls. Sitting at ease on the armchair was a trim boy with blonde hair and piercing green eyes. A boy who was not the gangly mess of glasses, braces and curly hair commonly known as Blaine Anderson.

Silence reigned for several moments, the carpet on the other side of the room continuing to be scuffed.

Then, a whisper wove its way through the quiet.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure Blaine, you can ask me anything. Absolutely anything. But if it's about something like palaeontology, the female reproductive system or _Hard Times_, you gotta know that I'm not exactly a shining expert. Especially not Dickens. Oh boy, I had such a _hard time _reading that lump of shit. But yeah, fire away."

Lips twitched upwards before they shaped themselves around another question.

"What is high school like? For you, I mean."

"Blaine, you're only thirteen, high school is far, far away. You have another whole year left at Saint Kenny's, remember? And you'll probably be at Dalton anyway, no crummy old Westerville East for you."

"I know, but I've been thinking about it a lot lately."

"And by 'thinking', you mean worrying, right?" Orrin knew Blaine better than he knew himself sometimes; the pair had been virtually inseparable since the end of last summer, despite attending different schools and living on opposite sides of town.

"A bit. I mean, Kenny's is pretty small. And very awesome. I'm worried about high school and how big it will be." The size was a concern, though not the main one.

"Yeah, high school is pretty big. Even bigger if you're a freshman, you're kind of at the bottom of the heap." Orrin paused, trying to decide whether to include the next piece of information that had popped into his mind. Deciding to be as honest as possible (as the two always tried to be), he added, "And I guess I'm right at the bottom of that heap's bottom, being the only out gay in the school and all. I get knocked about a bit, but it's not too bad."

This was the answer to the question that had been plaguing Blaine's mind since that morning. Well, not just that morning, more like the past six weeks or so. But especially since that morning. And now, thanks to his best friend, he had his answer: "It's not too bad."

* * *

><p>The day had begun like any other: homeroom, assembly, period one, break, period two. The eleven o'clock bell sounded and hoards of green-blazered boys piled out of the large brick building, all heading towards the sleek glass sports centre across the grass. Blaine, kit bag in hand, hummed tunefully as he crossed the turf. Though his friendship with Orrin had given him a love for football (as well as Vogue), he was very much an armchair fan so was delighted that his PE group had finally moved on to swimming. He was, after all, one of the very best on the Saint Kentigern swim team.<p>

Blaine had changed quickly, entering the pool before most of the other boys. He spent the next hour ploughing up and down the indoor pool, wanting to cram in as much practice as possible before Regional Qualifiers the following week. Coach Denali watched his impeccable stroke, sure that she was watching the winner the next State Gala. Her inner peace was interrupted, however, upon hearing an almighty splash coming from the other side of the pool. She turned her head just as Montgomery (Wesley, was it?) emerged to the surface, spitting water like a fountain gargoyle. David Thompson, always another troublemaker, laughed along with him. Why couldn't all the boys be like Anderson? Blaine was a champion swimmer (who'd get even better once he'd grown a bit), an accomplished pianist who could play by ear (she'd heard him perform in many school concerts), and the son of a nationally-recognised Congressman for whom she herself had voted. Oh, and he was the Hansken Scholar for the second year running. Students like him came along once in a career, if that.

Blaine was largely oblivious to the commotion that surrounded him, though the noise he heard each time he surfaced for air confirmed his suspicions that Wes and David had been playing up again. He found their immature antics amusing but tiresome; being best friends with someone two years older generally had that effect on a person. The pair were nice enough, though.

A loud whistle sliced through the air, signalling the end of the lesson. Blaine swam over to the pool steps and clambered out of the water. It was while he was walking with the other boys towards the changing rooms that it happened.

His eyes became stuck. Actually _stuck_.

To another boy's chest.

A chest. That was attached to a boy.

He unglued them after a moment, but that just made it worse: he was surrounded by chests. Chests were everywhere. Feeling his body gearing up for yet another embarrassing problem, he darted into a cubicle. Panting, he threw his back against one of the flimsy walls. He couldn't be gay. Orrin was the gay one, not him.

But he had these feelings. These not-at-all heterosexual feelings. And, he reluctantly admitted to himself, this wasn't an isolated incident. This couldn't just be swept under the carpet.

Yep, he was gay. Damn.

Damn damn damn damn damn damn. Shit. Damn.

Panicked tears began to stream down his face. What would his father say? They barely saw each other nowadays, maybe he'd stopped loving him. And what would his _grandfather_ say? This could get picked up by the newspapers! How mortifying that would be. People would _know_. And what would high school be like? Oh god, high school.

He curled up in a corner and let out a few sobs. One thing was certain; he'd have to quit the swim team. He'd keep his secret until he'd graduated high school, he decided. He'd move to New York. He'd delete everyone he knew from Ohio from his contacts. Then, maybe, things might be okay again.

"Blaine, dude, you alright?" It was David.

"I'm f-f-fine, I just… bruised my leg, I think."

Blaine winced inwardly at his lack of creativity; it would have been difficult to have come up with a sissier injury.

"Ouch. Do you want us to get the nurse?" This time, it was Wes' turn to be oblivious to the emotional turmoil taking place on the other side of the cubicle door.

"No, I'm just being pathetic," he said, a false laugh filling the enclosed space. "Thanks though."

Blaine went straight to lunch, deciding not to take any immediate action on the swim team front. He really did love swimming and he'd be reluctant to give it up, but this was a serious problem. Very serious. He whittled away the rest of the day, not thinking about anything until the school bus drew up outside his home.

As he stepped off the bus, he caught sight of the one person he desperately needed to see. How could he be so accepting of Orrin but so scared of himself?

* * *

><p>"It's not too bad."<p>

Blaine's heart throbbed with relief. Orrin was surviving, and he was at public school. Dalton would probably be yet more accepting, not that he'd risk anything. Maybe things could be okay. He quickly realised that though he wouldn't be coming out any time soon, telling someone might resolve the remaining tension he could feel pulling his chest apart.

As Orrin took a breath, no doubt to elaborate on his answer, Blaine made a split-second decision.

"IthinkI'mgay." His breaking voice fluctuated embarrassingly.

"Oh my god," said Orrin, "Your voice. Blainey's becoming a man. Awwwwh. It'll settle down in a month or so, don't you worry. Sorry, what did you say?"

Blaine was almost relieved to have been given a second chance. He was completely sure that Orrin should be the first to know.

"I'm gay, Orrin."

His senses shut down until he felt himself wrapped in the safety of a strong hug. He began to cry again, completely overwhelmed by the multitude of feelings pulsating through his body.

"It's okay, it's okay," Orrin soothed, rocking them both from side to side. "It's all okay."

He reached up to sweep Blaine's curls out of his face, kissing him softly on the forehead. They held each other for several minutes, the silence occasionally punctured by an involuntary sob.

"This is a really _really _difficult thing to come to terms with, Blaine. I understand." Orrin whispered into his ear.

Blaine pulled him closer, those two final words setting him off again. Silence returned for a few more moments as the two boys replayed everything that had just happened in their heads.

The quiet was soon broken as Orrin jolted back into life. "Oh my god, I'm like the worst friend ever for joking about your voice when you were trying to tell me something so important. Oh my god. I'm soooo sorry, Blainey. Oh my -"

Blaine laughed. Actually laughed. Before long, the two of them were leaning on each other, trying not to fall onto the floor. Nothing was funny, everything was going to be an uphill struggle, but they laughed so hard their chests ached and their throats hurt. It was a much better alternative to crying.

"Also," added Orrin between fitful giggles, "I'm totally recalibrating my gaydar. I was so sure you were straight. Or bi at most. And OH MY GOD I _finally_ have a gay friend."

Blaine stopped laughing.

"You seriously didn't guess that I'm… you know?" He wasn't confident enough to say the words.

"That you're gay, Blaine," Orrin finished, "You have to get used to saying it, otherwise it'll only make things harder. And no, I had absolutely no clue. I was 95% sure you were straight, but 5% of me kinda hoped you were bi so I could have someone to discuss cute guys with. But I'd never have guessed, honestly."

Blaine felt a surge of relief pass over him. Over the course of the day, he'd felt as if he had a bright pink post-it note on his forehead announcing his homosexuality to the world. But now Orrin, who knew him better than anyone and who himself was gay (which surely gave him superior hunches about these things), was saying he'd had no idea whatsoever. He'd been the person most likely to figure it out, and he hadn't suspected a thing. Blaine's secret was safe; if he ever did come out, it'd be on his own terms.

"Sooooo, when are you planning on telling people?"

"I'm not."

Orrin's jaw dropped.

"Please don't tell anyone. I don't know how the people at school would react, much less my family."

"Fine, Blaine. But it'll be hard on you to keep the straight act up, you have to know that."

"Not as hard as the alternative, Orrin. Two generations of my family are in the public eye, I can't guarantee that it'd just blow over. I have no idea how my mom and dad would react, I don't even think they remember who I am sometimes. And my _grandfather_, well, the less said about him the better. And don't forget that I go to an _all-boys _school. That can be the cherry ticking on top of this particular timebomb."

Orrin's heart burst with sympathy. He'd never met Blaine's parents, but had concluded from what his friend had told him that they were loving but painfully absent (if such a thing were possible). Michael had started travelling overseas, and Karen had found the separation so unbearable that had taken to accompanying him. They felt guilty whenever they left Blaine at home, but paid Juanita (the family cleaner) a substantial bonus to watch out for their son while they were gone. It was no different to him being in boarding school, was it? And they'd buy him whatever he wanted to make up for their 'occasional' trips abroad.

But Orrin knew that love couldn't be bought with a credit card. They all did, really. He promised himself that he'd watch out for his best friend, no matter what it took.

As it turned out, that promise came up for scrutiny within a second of its conception.

"Anyway, I'm going to quit the swim team."

"Why? You're an amazing swimmer. And isn't that gala thing coming up?"

Blaine turned red before whispering, "Ikindofnearlygotaboner today after swimming."

He expected Orrin to laugh at him, but the other boy remained completely serious. "Blaine, it's going to happen. It probably didn't even have that much to do with seeing the other guys, it just happens sometimes. Part of being a teenager, I'm afraid. It's not like you're a sexpest pervert, it's happened to me at _way _worse times than that."

Blaine stared at him.

"Like at a funeral. Not in the church, thankfully. At the reception."

Blaine _really _stared at him.

"True story. It can happen at any time, you don't even have to be thinking of anything sexy. There was certainly nothing like that on my mind at the funeral, that's for sure. I swear I'm not weird."

Blaine smiled.

"Promise me you won't quit the swim team."

A moment passed before Blaine looked him in the eye. "I promise."

Orrin embraced him once more. "Thank you for trusting me with this, Blaine. It'll get easier for both of us, I'm sure of it."

Telling Orrin might just have been the best decision Blaine had ever made.

* * *

><p><strong>AN **

**In case you're wondering, the title of this chapter relates to the phrase, 'To see the elephant', which Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable tells me is an American expression meaning to see all there is to see. I'd never heard it, but then I'm no expert on elephant-related idioms. Sorry if this is disappointing to you ;) **


	4. Melancholy Mad Elephants

**Chapter 4 – Melancholy Mad Elephants**

"_But no temperature made the melancholy mad elephants more mad or more sane. Their wearisome heads went up and down at the same rate, in hot weather and cold, wet weather and dry, fair weather and foul." _

_- Ch. I Vol. II, Hard Times, Charles Dickens_

* * *

><p>A brown leather briefcase, scuffed from a lifetime on baggage reclaim carousels, was discarded by the front door. A creased coat was tossed onto a hook, and battered shoes were pulled off before being thrown lackadaisically into the closet. A dishevelled man began to emerge out of the layers of equally bedraggled winter clothing, his body suffering from the combined maladies of long-term fatigue and shorter-term jet lag. Michael sighed as the blanket-like warmth of the house wrapped around his body; he was home for Christmas, a whole four days of much-needed rest, before he'd have to head back to Washington on Boxing Day.<p>

On the whole, he reflected, the conference in Cambridge had been a success. And by Cambridge, he meant Cambridge, England, not Cambridge, MA. It had paid very well (though the university had only provided one plane ticket, meaning Karen had stayed at home), and his room in Pembroke College had reminded him of so many happy times at Yale. The College grounds were also comfortingly familiar, teeming with plants virtually identical to those in his own garden. The debates, however, had been the best feature of all. Michaelmas term had ended the previous week, but hoards of keen students had stayed in college to hear the many internationally-renowned speakers who'd flown in from around the world. Michael's lecture, _'Liberalism and the Limits of Justice'_, had generated the best discussion of any of the addresses, its contentious subject sparking impassioned responses from both sides. The panel had been so impressed that they'd already booked him for the following year.

He settled down into his favourite chair, satisfied with his success. Karen would be returning from Columbus soon, and he looked forward to some much-missed home cooking. As he sunk further into the chair, he detected a muffled trace of conversation coming from somewhere upstairs. Blaine's recently-settled voice was instantly recognisable, but it was intertwined with another that he'd never heard before. Michael, curious to find out who Blaine's visitor was, tried to summon up the energy to visit his son: he hadn't seen him in over a month, and it was so hard to keep track when the fourteen-year-old was changing so fast. He manoeuvred his legs as he prepared to hoist himself out of his seat, but his eyelids began to droop and his balance was gone. He fell backwards onto the chair, collapsing into a deep and dreamless sleep.

* * *

><p>It was the first day of the Christmas break and Orrin had come round early that morning. He shivered as he crossed the threshold, his reddened nose and ears illuminating his pale face. Blaine pulled him into a solid hug.<p>

"Oh Orrin, couldn't you have driven?" he said into Orrin's shoulder. His friend had recently passed his test, and both boys were very much enjoying the freedom it had provided.

"I did, Blaine. This," he signalled to his face, "Is just a result of walking up the drive."

Blaine winced. He had thought they'd go to the mall to spend the generous clothing allowance his mom had given him before stopping off at Starbucks on the way home. None of that seemed very desirable now.

"So," said Orrin, "What should we do? I've got to be honest, I don't really want to go outside again. My balls will shrink to the size of pinheads if they get any colder, and I need them. I need them, Blaine."

Blaine's smile nearly split his face in half. Orrin was just so… Well, Orrin was Orrin.

"Oh my god, oh my god, where are your braces? You didn't tell me you were getting them taken off. Oh my god. You have better teeth than me now. I'm sorry, I can't be seen in public with you any more. People will think I have poor oral hygiene. Oh god."

Blaine had almost forgotten that he hadn't seen Orrin in the ten days since his orthodontist appointment; their friendship was so solid that they could settle back into easy conversation within seconds, no matter how long it had been since they'd last seen each other.

"Don't be stupid Orrin, those choppers of yours emit more light than the rays that shine out of my grandfather's ass. I cannot compete. Let's go upstairs, we can watch a movie or something."

The next five hours were spent curled up under Blaine's navy duvet watching _The Notebook_, _Moulin Rouge! _and _The Lion King_. Neither boy had seen either of the first two so they sat with their eyes glued to the screen, lost in the romance of Noah and Allie and Satine and Christian. The sound from the television was only very rarely interrupted by snippets of conversation. As it turned out, though, those snippets held vital clues about what each boy was feeling deep within his heart.

"Orrin?"

"Mmmmmm?"

"What do you want your first kiss to be like?"

"Dunno. But nothing like _The Notebook_, that was lame. They were soaked, they'd be too cold to enjoy it."

"I thought it was wonderfully romantic."

"Christ, you're even gayer than I thought."

Blaine laughed before silence returned. Yet more forbidden romance, stolen kisses and newfound love flickered their way across the screen.

A whisper. "Blaine?"

"Yes, Orrin?"

"Do you think it's weird that I'm sixteen and haven't done anything?"

"What are you talking about? Please don't have an existential crisis on me; my heart's still recovering from the end of the first movie. Not to mention that you're amazingly accomplished. Didn't Robert Horton say that you were their best trainee _ever_? And you make good grades–"

"I mean anything sexual. Like, I haven't even _kissed _anybody."

Blaine looked over at the boy lying next to him. "Orrin, it's not like you've had anybody _to _kiss. Or do anything else with, or to, or whatever." He blushed red, remembering that night a couple of weeks ago when they'd trawled through the health sites together. That particular evening had been the consequence of Orrin's discovery of Blaine's woeful lack of knowledge, and it had ended with one traumatised but well-informed fourteen-year-old and one increasingly frustrated sixteen-year-old.

"I suppose."

Their eyes focused back onto the movie, which ended around twenty minutes later.

It was, however, a moment of silence that brought to light a revelation larger than anything dredged up by those frank exchanges.

* * *

><p>Their emotions well and truly drained, the boys had decided to put on the one movie both of them knew by heart. They sang along enthusiastically, their impromptu duet stalling only once for Orrin to say, "Blaine, you've got an incredible voice, man. Like, incredible. You could sing The Beatles and get away with it." Blaine had blushed, mostly because singing had always been an intensely private thing for him. But then Orrin had started singing the female parts in a ridiculous (and very tuneless) falsetto, and Blaine couldn't resist joining in again. After hearty renditions of 'The Circle of Life', 'I Just Can't Wait to Be King' and 'Be Prepared', the two fell asleep, neither one knowing who had dropped off first.<p>

What Blaine did know, however, was that he had been the first to wake up. He looked over at the clock: it was 6:13pm, meaning they'd been asleep for just over four hours. Blaine had turned over to rouse Orrin, but, noticing the hilarious face-down sleeping position of his friend, had decided to take a picture before waking him up. It was as he'd leaned over his friend to retrieve the camera from the nightstand that he'd first noticed it.

It was nothing much, nothing more than a white line. But it was definitely there. It ran from below Orrin's belt line on the left hand side of his back, extending upwards across the flesh exposed by the tank top that had ridden up in the boy's sleep. Blaine traced it with his eyes until it disappeared beneath the fabric of the garment.

He had to know what was under that shirt.

Two things were working in his favour. The first was that Orrin was a notoriously deep sleeper (his mom had once told Blaine that he'd managed to sleep through the demolition of a wall while they'd been building an extension). The second, and perhaps more useful, was that Orrin had decided to wear his leather jacket/ tank top outfit that day. Since he'd removed the leather jacket to make himself more comfortable for the movie, the only barrier between Blaine and the truth was a thin layer of elasticised fabric.

He peeled it back.

What he saw shocked him to the core.

All over Orrin's back were bruises and shallow cuts. No wonder he'd been lying on his front, Blaine thought, the pain must be horrifying. But those were only surface injuries. That white scar which, Blaine found, extended to the back of Orrin's rib cage, had once been a cut that had dug much deeper.

Tears formed in his eyes. He didn't think about why Orrin hadn't told him, he didn't even think about how his friend had sustained the injuries in the first place. All he thought was that he'd have to wake Orrin to tell him that he knew; it wouldn't be fair to keep his findings a secret from a boy who could need his help.

He smoothed the fabric down Orrin's back, before prodding at the boy's sides to wake him up.

"Orrin, Orrin. Wake up. It's Blaine."

"Mmmwmhhmdmumph," he grunted, rubbing his eyes.

"It's quarter past six, we were asleep for four hours."

"Oh."

Orrin rolled over onto his back without expression; it was Blaine who winced as his friend's mangled back came in contact with the bed.

"What's wrong with you?" Orrin said with a jokey overtone to his voice, "Traumatised by my sleeping habits?"

Blaine looked him directly in the eye. "I know. About your back."

Orrin was suddenly very, very serious. "Oh. That."

Silence.

"I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to worry." Orrin sounded strong, but Blaine could practically see his insides swimming around his body in a state of blind panic.

"Did it happen at school?"

Orrin knew that honesty was not only the best and only policy; Blaine could read him like a book.

"Yes, they're mostly from being thrown against lockers, brick walls, that sort of thing. Some guys, they pick on me. It's nothing too serious, though."

"What about that huge scar?"

"That was from a surgery I had ten years ago, Blaine. They had to fix some of the nerve fibres next to my spinal column." To anyone else, it would have sounded like a flimsy excuse to cover a bully's worst work, but Blaine knew his friend was telling the truth.

"Fine. But that doesn't mean we can ignore the fact that half the skin on your back has been grazed off."

"It's fine, it happens so much I hardly feel it any more." Orrin had hardly realised what he'd said; Blaine was so easy to talk to that self-censorship really wasn't an option. It was only once he'd played the exchange back to himself that he remembered what he'd said. He looked over at Blaine, who he expected to be hurt and upset that he hadn't been told.

But, to his surprise, he saw neither of those things.

Instead, he saw anger. Pure, fiery, unadulterated anger. He'd never seen Blaine's face contorted in such a way in all the time he'd spent with him.

"FUCK," Blaine screamed. SCREAMED. "Why does this happen to you? You're so kind, you're so sweet. Why you?"

"Might have a just little to do with me liking boys..." Orrin replied in a measured tone.

"No shit. Just take a look at us. You're lying in front of me almost _accepting _the fact that your back is a mess of scars. You're resigned to defeat and you've been beaten to a pulp, and you're the _courageous_ one. I'm in my closet, _still_. It's easier for me to hide who I am and suppress every aspect of my personality than tell people my one sordid little secret. It's killing me to have to put on an act every single moment of my life." He was sobbing now. "And I can tell, no matter how much of a brave face you put on, that you're dying inside too."

"Blaine, calm down. Your dad might be home soon, and I wouldn't want my first introduction to happen when you're in this state."

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, ORRIN." He exploded. "I'm pissed. This isn't fair, it isn't."

Orrin circled his arms around Blaine's chest, hugging his friend close to his own body. He rocked them in the way he always did, all the while soothing reassuring words into his ear.

"It's okay Blaine, it'll get better in time. It will."

To Orrin's delight, the boy who emerged from his embrace had a face completely awash with calm.

But there was something else there too. Something that looked suspiciously like the resolution of a mouse that found itself standing up to an elephant.

A pause.

"I'm coming to Westerville East next year."

Orrin made a noise that sounded like a cat being strangled. "You can't do that. Coming out would only mean the same happening to you."

"Oh no," said Blaine, shaking his head amusedly, "That's the whole beauty of it: I wouldn't. I'd just be there to protect you. I'd be your straight-but-not-so-straight bodyguard. And once you've graduated, I'll just transfer to Dalton. That should be enough to get my scores up before college. And before you ask, I won't be coming out there, either. A wealthy school doesn't necessarily equate to a liberal school."

Orrin felt bad that Blaine was considering making such a great sacrifice for him. His future had been set in stone: he'd graduate middle school, no doubt top of his class, he'd graduate Dalton, top of his class again, and then he'd graduate Yale or Harvard or possibly Dartmouth, probably top yet again. And after that, he'd be a top lawyer, banker, surgeon or politician, perhaps the best of his generation, just because that was who Blaine Anderson was. Orrin could scarcely believe that his extraordinary friend would jeopardise this life to help him out. But that was exactly what Blaine was, extraordinary.

A door slammed downstairs, shocking Orrin back into the present. "You can't do that," he managed to squeak, fully aware that his friend's mind had been made up more than three minutes ago.

But then he remembered something. "What will your parents say? Will they allow it?"

"I honestly think that they'll go along with anything I want at this point. Sure, they're 98% certain that you're a figment of my imagination, but they'll give me my way. They feel so guilty for leaving me home they'll do anything."

"As long as you're sure, Blaine."

There was silence for a moment. A single tear ran down Orrin's face, leaving a salty trail in its wake.

"This is the kindest, most generous thing anyone's ever done for me."

"You deserve it Orrin, you deserve it all. You saved me; I want to give you something back." They hugged, and Blaine kissed his friend softly on the forehead.

"I'd better go, my mom will be wondering where I am. She leaves for the late shift in two hours, and she'll want to see me fed." A pause. "Thank you so much, Blaine. So much."

"It's my pleasure. Hey, do you want to meet my dad on the way out? I think I heard him come in a few minutes ago."

"Sure," Orrin replied, keen to meet the great Michael 'Mike' Anderson.

They descended the grand staircase, Orrin's nerves stirring as the pair neared the bottom. Blaine grabbed his hand, leading him to a large door that had been left slightly ajar.

He heard a snort. "He's already asleep, the old wreck," Blaine said, "But at least pop your head round the door- it's not every day you see a Congressman drooling all over a battered Armani."

Orrin did as he'd been told, the sight that met him making him crease up in silent laughter. It was so strange to see the face he recognised from so many pictures and news items hanging lopsidedly, covered in drool. Blaine was soon joining him, recognising the undignified position of the upstanding politician as one of the funniest things he'd seen in a long while. Once they'd recovered enough to walk, the pair wordlessly made their way towards the front door. Orrin put on his outdoor clothes and the pair embraced once again.

"See you soon."

"See you."

They separated, Orrin's footsteps crunching rhythmically down the icy driveway as carefully he made his way to his car.

* * *

><p>"Dad, dad, wake up."<p>

Stillness.

"Daaaaaad."

"Awhuuuuuh?" The images of 14th century architecture and stimulating academic debate that had been filling Michael's head for the past few hours came to a sudden conclusion. That was Blaine's voice, that was his son. And he was calling him.

He blinked his eyes open, desperately trying to bring them into focus. A pair of familiar hazel eyes began to materialise out of the haze, still exactly the same as when their owner had stared so deeply into his soul that day he'd picked up those two little elephants. But, Michael noted, pretty much everything else about his son had changed: his teeth were perfect, his shoulders were broad, and the outline of an Adam's apple could now be seen bobbing up and down in his throat. At least the hair was still wild as ever. Michael realised then and there that the young guy standing in front of him was not the boy he pictured when he thought of the name 'Blaine'. He promised, not for the first time, to make more of an effort to see his son, even if it was via Skype or something. The Internet was marvellous nowadays, anything could be done.

His musing was interrupted by a simple statement.

"I'm going to Westerville East next year."

Despite his fatigue, the tough Congressman inherent within Michael's psyche leapt to action.

"Isn't that a public school?"

"Yes, and I want to go there."

"No."

Blaine could scarcely believe that his father, who knew next to nothing about his life, was running roughshod over all his plans. He pictured Michael in the saddle of an enormous Republic elephant, stomping over everything he had worked so hard to set up.

Fine, Blaine thought after a moment, two could play at this game.

"But dad, I _need _to go to that school. It's the best public school in the area, its results are almost comparable to Dalton's." It was a twisted truth, but he had said 'almost'. That meant it wasn't _strictly_ a lie.

Michael's face remained unchanged.

Blaine played the trump card.

"And you and mom are away so often, and I get incredibly lonely. Orrin's at Westerville East, he'll be a junior next year. He's the only person who keeps me company when you and mom are gone."

Michael felt as if he'd been stabbed in the heart. Was his son really taking his absence this hard?

"Okay, fine," he conceded instinctively, "I'm sure you know what's best for you."

Blaine felt a wave of relief pass over his entire body.

"Thanks, dad," he said, giving him a cuddle, "I knew you'd understand."

Michael knew in his heart that he'd made the right decision. He was so amazed by Blaine's maturity every time he spoke to him, and he was sure his son knew which educational route would be of most benefit. And having a son at a public school would do wonders for his already soaring popularity ratings, especially if an announcement was made before the election; it would show that he as a father had confidence in the state system, that he was a man of the people. It was all working out better than he could ever have hoped.


	5. An Elephant's Load

***PRECAUTIONARY WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS VIOLENCE. DO NOT READ IF YOU'RE FEELING FRAGILE.***

**Chapter 5: An Elephant's Load**

_Only an elephant can bear an elephant's load_

_- Indian Proverb_

* * *

><p>Two identical pairs of dress shoes lay waiting by the door, their patent leather gleaming under the warm glow of the large chandelier that hung in the Anderson hallway. Upstairs in a bathroom, scuffed jeans were shimmied down legs and replaced with a pair of crisply-pressed black trousers, which were secured in place with the click of a silver belt buckle. A white dress shirt, already buttoned, was then tucked into the trousers, before Orrin stepped out of the en-suite bathroom door into Blaine's bedroom.<p>

Blaine, still dressed in the jeans and t-shirt he'd worn to school that day, gaped at his friend.

"Wow Orrin, you look amazing."

"Thanks Blainey, though we both know that Horton's is more deserving of your praise than I am. So, you gonna get ready?"

"Yeah, I'd better I guess. I gotta find a way to tame this," he replied, gesturing around his head at the mess of curls. "It's such a pain."

"I can do it for you if you want."

Blaine was curious about what his friend could do with a bit of gel and hairspray so allowed himself to be led into the bathroom. Orrin reached over the sink to retrieve a washbag full of hair products, before fetching a stool for Blaine to sit on.

"Take your glasses off, I don't want to break them when I'm brushing your curls out."

Blaine discarded them beside the basin, his vision blurring instantly. Orrin smiled to himself as he dragged a comb through the tangled hair, Blaine yelping each time his friend hit a bad knot. After a while, the combing ceased.

"Take your shirt off, I need to wash your hair. Honestly Blaine, you need to start brushing it."

"But it makes it go frizzy," Blaine whined, taking his shirt off regardless.

Orrin shoved his friend's head under the taps, wetting the hair before massaging in a curl-specific shampoo and conditioner. Blaine squeezed his eyes shut, trying to prevent any from getting in his eyes. Before long, he was sitting upright again with a towel around his neck.

"So," said Orrin, "I'm just going to put some serum in now."

Whatever serum was, Blaine didn't feel any. Instead, he heard the very distinctive sound of a snip of scissors somewhere near his right ear.

"Orrin!" he squealed, bringing his hands up to his head. "Did you just cut my hair?"

"Yes, and about time too. Let me finish up. We can't stop, anyway. Well, not unless you fancy walking around with a massive clump missing from that frizzy mess you call your hair."

"Oh my god Orrin, do you even know how to cut hair? I'm going to look _horrific_ at the dance."

"Yeah, I cut my brother's all the time. I even brought these special scissors," Orrin reassured, snipping the scissors wildly in front of Blaine's face. "I'm so excited to see what you'll look like with short hair."

Blaine only heard those final two words. He liked his curly hair: he'd had it all his life, he was used to it. But, he knew, the curls had already been condemned to the bathroom floor. He could hardly walk around with a huge section of his hair missing, after all. Besides, a new look might provide him with the refreshment he so sorely needed; two solid years of 'playing straight' were beginning to take their toll.

"Fine," he relented, "Do whatever you want."

Orrin smiled, delighted to have been trusted with a free reign. Unable to see properly, the only thing Blaine could really detect was the sensation of damp curls being pulled taut and snipped, pulled taut and snipped. Orrin would occasionally ruffle his hair, checking the balance of the cut.

Thirty minutes later, Blaine sensed that the proceedings were nearing an end. He heard Orrin unzip the washbag again, before feeling warm hands smoothing a thin layer of gel across his head.

"Okay," Orrin finally said, "You can put your glasses back on now." He passed them to him.

Blaine hooked his glasses back over his ears, blinking a few times into the mirror. He barely recognised the dapper boy staring back at him.

"Do you like it?"

"Yes. I think so. I mean, it's just so _different_."

"I think you look incredible, I knew it'd suit you."

"You planned this?"

"I'd kind of hoped you'd let me at some point, hence the scissors." Orrin's face lit up mischievously. "Wanna know a secret?"

Blaine nodded.

"That first snip you heard, it didn't cut any hair." He laughed, Blaine soon joining him: he'd expect nothing less of the other boy.

Orrin left the bathroom to allow Blaine to change. Soon afterwards, the younger boy emerged in his own black Horton's tuxedo. It fit him perfectly.

"Will you tie my tie for me? I can't do it."

Orrin sighed dramatically before reaching around Blaine's neck to tie the bow tie. His expert fingers performed the task perfectly first time, before he reached down into his pocket for his own tie which he then knotted around his neck.

Blaine went up to his mirror, picking up a box of contact lenses from the side table.

"I've never used these before. Oh god, I'm going to poke my eyes out, I know it. I can hardly even see where my eyes _are_ without my glasses on."

Orrin watched Blaine's reflection as his fumbled with the lenses. Eventually, the younger boy managed to slide them into his eyes.

Blaine turned around to face Orrin.

"So, how do I look?"

Orrin looked him up and down. In the space of forty minutes or so, his best friend had transformed from a rather gawky freshman into a very well-turned out young man. He looked incredible.

"You look fantastic, Blaine. You have officially passed the test so you're permitted to be my date for tonight. He stood up and hooked his arm into Blaine's.

"Let's go downstairs and put our shoes on."

Together, they descended the grand staircase with their arms intertwined.

* * *

><p>Arms rapidly unlinked as soon as they saw that someone was standing at the bottom of the stairs. Karen. Blaine stared disbelievingly at his mother; this wasn't supposed to have happened, she hadn't been due home for another two hours, he had <em>planned <em>it.

Karen looked up at the two boys standing midway down the lower flight. She didn't recognise either of them. What were these strange boys doing in her home? Perhaps they were burglars, disguised so as to avoid arousing suspicion. Oh god, were they kidnappers? Would they all be tak-

Her mind was suddenly emptied of all thoughts as she realised that the shorter of the two boys was- no, it wasn't, was it? It couldn't be… It was. It was Blaine. Except his hair was straight and shorter than it had ever been, his glasses were gone, and he was dressed so smartly she thought she might cry. And he was standing so close to that other boy: they were great friends, that much was obvious. She had no idea who he was, though.

Suddenly, she realised that the tears that threatened to overwhelm her wouldn't really be coming from the fact that her son had grown up. No, they would be flowing harder, faster and more devastatingly than any she'd cried before because she no longer knew her son. She didn't know his best friend, and that meant she didn't know him. Blaine was practically a man, and she hadn't noticed. At all.

Teary eyed, she directed her attention towards the other boy. His outfit was identical to that of her son save for the small rainbow pin he wore on his lapel. He was clearly a little eccentric.

"You must be Orrin."

"You're not wrong," Orrin said charmingly. "It's good to finally meet you, Mrs. Anderson."

"Thank you for being Blaine's friend, Orrin. He's honestly taken so much from you, you've helped him so much."

"I think the opposite is more true, Mrs. Anderson."

Karen gasped. The bond was so strong she could have felt it without Orrin saying anything, but that didn't stop the affirmation from making her heart surge in fondness for her son.

"Is it the Sadie Hawkins tonight, then?" she asked, remembering that Blaine had mentioned it the last time they'd really spoken. Had that discussion really been as long as two weeks ago? Her heart broke even more.

"It is," confirmed Blaine. "Neither Orrin or I have dates, so we're going together. He did my hair for me earlier today."

Karen knew Blaine didn't allow anyone other than those closest to him (or expensive barbers) touch his hair, let alone cut it. Something in her chest sunk further; how had she never met the boy who was obviously someone her son would trust with anything?

An awkward silence fell while Karen scolded herself and Blaine wished he'd been more careful. Karen finally tried to make conversation.

"So Orrin, does your badge mean anything or is it just for fun? I haven't seen them sold by any charities around here."

Blaine's eyes went wide in panic. Orrin was calm.

"It shows my support for gay rights."

Blaine realised that Orrin was leaving the decision up to him, so he made it.

"Orrin is gay, mom."

He frantically searched his mother's face for her reaction, desperate to see how she was responding.

She smiled, that was all. That was it.

"Oh," she said in a voice full of heartfelt sympathy, "That must be hard at Westerville East."

Biggest understatement of the year, thought Blaine. Orrin was 'knocked about' at least daily, as was Blaine by association. Still, it was only a year and a half before Orrin would leave for college (Ohio State, he had decided) and Blaine would transfer to Dalton. There was hope. And his mother's reaction to Orrin's sexuality only served to make him yet more optimistic.

"So is Orrin your date, Blaine?"

Blaine felt his mouth opening and closing in an unthinking panic. Was this it? Was she actually _asking_? Did she… no, she couldn't know.

Orrin touched his ankle to Blaine's in a subtle gesture of reassurance.

"In the sense that we're going to the dance together, then I suppose he is. But nothing else is going on, we're just friends mom."

The unasked question was still hanging in the air. Orrin shoved Blaine harder, encouraging him to tell his mom now they both knew it was safe.

So Blaine did.

It was so quiet it could barely be heard, but that didn't change the fact that the unsaid had finally been brought out into the open.

"But, in case you're wondering... Well, I- I- I'm gay too."

This was the second time he'd done it, more than two years since he'd said the very same words to the boy currently stood next to him. This time, though, he didn't black out. He couldn't afford to. Instead, his eyes conducted a more thorough investigation of his mother's face than they had after she'd first learned of Orrin's sexuality.

Her face didn't move. It didn't fucking move.

Her lips did, though.

"I've suspected that since you were eight, Blaine. What other kid do you know with a red power ranger named Barbie?"

Orrin raised his hand. "I knew one, he went by the name of Orrin Blake. Except his was an action man called Pocahontas. Don't even ask."

Blaine just stood there in shock. She had known. Since he was a child. Was there something about him that just screamed GAY GAY GAY to the world? Was there a flashing Las Vegas-style sign projecting big gay rainbows all over his face?

"But _please _don't tell your father, it'll break his heart. He doesn't suspect a thing."

Orrin didn't miss a beat.

"Excuse me for saying so, but I am actually quite offended that you're asking Blaine to do that. This is about an aspect of his personality that is fundamental to his very being, and it would be as difficult for him to change it as it would for him to grow another arm. You're sort of making it seem like Blaine's sexuality is a shameful secret to be hidden, Mrs. Anderson. Just take a minute to think about how hard it was for him to stand there and tell you that he likes guys. Sorry if I'm overstepping, but this really is something I feel passionate about."

Orrin spoke so eloquently that Karen was almost tempted to retract her statement.

"Orrin, his father is a Congressman. He wants to be a Senator. For the _Republican_ Party. He can't have a gay son, he just can't. And he has his heart set on grandchildren; Michael Sr. will be so disappointed if the Anderson name dies out."

Orrin could feel his face flaring in anger but instead of lashing out or delivering a long monologue about surrogacy and adoption, he dragged Blaine into the alcove where the shoe closet was located.

"Come on Blaine, we're going to our dance. Together. And no one can ruin it. What you just did, that was fucking awesome. I was awesome too. We were both awesome. And we deserve this Blaine, we really do deserve this. And I know what you're thinking, so I'll just go ahead and say it: no one, I repeat no one, can tell you're gay. Your mom had just made an assumption based on a stereotype, an assumption that ultimately proved correct. Had you turned out straight, I can guarantee that she'd have forgotten the story altogether and seen no relevance in it at all."

Blaine took a deep breath to calm himself. Orrin was right, of course he was. Thank god he'd been on hand to help him through that little exchange.

Before long, he had laced up his shoes while Orrin had done the same, and they'd left the house together arm in arm. They didn't notice the flash of a camera that whitewashed the room more fleetingly than the blink of an eye.

* * *

><p>The dance had passed completely without incident. Blaine and Orrin had had a fantastic time, with Orrin spending the majority of the evening laughing at the crazy shapes Blaine was throwing across the dance floor. They'd even shared a slow dance or two, but only when they'd been sure the hall was dark enough for them to pass unseen.<p>

The end of the evening came far too quickly, and they were soon sitting on a kerb by the school trying to eke out the last dregs of their evening before Orrin's dad came to pick them up. The sky was clear and illuminated with thousands upon thousands of stars, and the air was crisp but unseasonably warm for November. Their hands were intertwined, Blaine on the right with Orrin leaning against his left shoulder. They hadn't said anything since they'd left the school.

Orrin bit the bullet.

"Blaine," he whispered, "Do you remember that day we watched _The Notebook_ and you asked me what I wanted my first kiss to be like?"

"Mmmmm," said Blaine, wanting to know where this was going.

"I kind of want it to be here right now with you."

Silence.

"I want that too," Blaine eventually whispered, looking deep into those familiar green eyes, "I want it to be you. So much."

Their noses fit snugly against each other as their faces drew closer than they'd ever been. They paused there for a moment sharing the same breath, hovering in stillness before they took that last step. Their lips finally met in one mutual, fluid movement, each boy giving the other a gift that would be remembered forever. It was tentative and slow, neither boy really knowing what to do, but it was every bit as perfect as it could have been. Nothing could alter the fact that Blaine Anderson was first kissed by Orrin Blake, or that Orrin Blake was first kissed by Blaine Anderson.

Orrin wrapped his hands around Blaine's neck, right where the newly-cut hairline met exposed skin. Their lips separated after a few more seconds, but Orrin's hands remained where they were. They couldn't bear to move their faces back more than a few inches, and their eyes were trained on each another in a look of deep affection.

"You're my best friend in the world, Blaine. You're so special to me," Orrin whispered. "Tonight was one of the best nights of my life, and that was all down to you. You're so courageous and selfless, and I was so honoured that you allowed me to be there when you came out to your mom."

Blaine's heart lurched. He loved Orrin as much as it was possible to love someone, even though they both knew their relationship would always be purely platonic. Their kiss had been one of friendship and trust rather than one of sexual desire, not that this invalidated the strength of feeling that lay behind it. They were the kind of friends who said they loved each other in the full knowledge that it would not lead them anywhere near a bed.

All Blaine could think to do was lean back in.

Again it was slow and tentative, but this time Blaine could feel Orrin's tongue pressing up against his closed lips. He parted them instinctively, allowing their tongues to meet. Orrin brought a hand up to Blaine's cheek, stroking it fondly as he continued to kiss him.

Somewhere in the distance was the almost imperceptible sound of a door slamming and muffled voices coming out into the night. Aside from that, though, all was silent.

* * *

><p>Suddenly, it was all <em>but<em> silent.

"Hey," came a bellow, "It's faggy Blake spreading his gayness. Anderson's not even a gay, he's been corrupted. They even have the same fag hair."

Blaine and Orrin leapt apart. It was Norris, no doubt with his letterman-jacketed minions nearby. Blaine knew what he had to do. He turned to look up at Norris straight in the eyes.

"I'm gay too, you piece of shit."

They both knew running wasn't an option, so they might as well fight. They'd been so _careless_.

"Come on guys, let's give these cocksuckers a lesson in natural selection." This time, it was Rupert's weedy voice that rang out into the darkness.

The happiest night of Blaine's life soon became the most terrifying. Orrin and Blaine tried to grab onto each other as punches were thrown and hard kicks pilloried their backs, but they were soon dragged off separately by boys twice their size. Blaine was knocked down within minutes, his leg and ribs throbbing too badly to move. But Orrin fought. Orrin fought hard. Soon, all the boys were crowding around him, leaving a breathless Blaine lying helplessly on the sidewalk.

"Blaine," Orrin yelled, "Go get someone. I'll handle this."

Orrin's instruction caused something in Blaine to reignite. He gathered up strength he didn't know he had, and hoisted himself onto his feet. His legs felt strong and the intense pain in his chest all but subsided, and he sprinted back into the school.

He screamed for help. Mr. Peters, the burly PE teacher, immediately ran outside to split up the fight. Someone else dialled 911.

But when Blaine came out of the door to look over at the scene of the fight, he was winded. The hockey team (plus Rupert) had been dispersed, exposing Orrin's disfigured and battered body.

It was only then that Blaine realised: Orrin had offered himself as a sacrifice. He had basically thrown himself to the lions to allow Blaine to escape.

With a heart and nervous system too overwhelmed to feel anything but numbness, Blaine stumbled over to where Mr. Peters was leaning over his friend. As he drew closer, he saw that Orrin was conscious. He was hanging on.

Orrin's eyes lit up when Blaine hovered over his face.

"Blaine." It was so hoarse it was almost silent.

Blaine grabbed his hand before leaning in to kiss him on the forehead. It was one of the few places not covered in cuts or bruises. He stroked Orrin's hair to let him know he was listening.

"You're… you're the most important… person… in my life."

Mr. Peters turned away, looking up the road to see where the ambulance was. He was still listening, though.

"Thank you so much… for everything. Promise me… you won't feel guilty about this… You were just as brave as me, I want you to know that. You didn't cause this."

It felt like a goodbye. It felt _exactly _like a goodbye. But it wasn't, it couldn't be. Blaine needed him too much, he knew he couldn't live without Orrin. Kind Orrin, brave Orrin, selfless Orrin. Orrin who was lying battered, disfigured and in unimaginable pain on the sidewalk. Orrin who could think of nothing but the possibility of Blaine blaming himself.

Tears rocked precariously on Blaine's tear ducts, but he didn't cry. He needed to be strong for Orrin.

"I'm nowhere near as brave as you, Orrin. You saved me, in more ways than one. I'll never be able to repay you. You're my best friend and I love you."

Orrin wanted to say it back, he so wanted to say it back, but he could feel something swallowing him up. He had to hang on for a few more seconds; the ambulance would be coming soon. He didn't want to die, he didn't deserve this.

But this was how it was going to end. Not with a bang but a whimper.

As the sirens came into earshot, he slipped into unconsciousness. The last thing he felt were Blaine's hands softly stroking his hair and his lips brushing against his forehead.

* * *

><p>The EMTs crowded around Orrin, who was by this point barely breathing. There was a huge amount of noise as police arrived, everyone shouting instructions over Orrin's twitching body. An oxygen mask was shoved onto his face, and his shirt was cut off. Blaine's vision eluded him and he heard nothing but a confusion of voices.<p>

"There's a lot of internal bleeding."

"He's haemorrhaging."

"His pulse is slowing."

"One lung has collapsed, the other is punctured. The spleen appears ruptured, as does the pancreas."

"Put him on the spineboard, he needs to get to the hospital right now."

* * *

><p>Blaine watched as Orrin was hoisted up into the ambulance. From his limited medical knowledge, he knew his friend's chances were slim to none, but that didn't mean he <em>believed <em>it for a second: this couldn't be happening, it just couldn't be. But, in case it was, he had to be there for Orrin.

Gathering himself, he pulled on the arm of one of the EMTs.

"What?" The response was brusque and completely lacking in sympathy.

"I'm Orrin's best friend, I need to be there for him."

"Only family, I'm afraid."

"I'm his boyfriend." There was nothing between 'best friend' and 'boyfriend', so Blaine had plumped for the stronger option.

"Sorry. No."

Blaine slumped.

Another voice, "Come on Dave, we've got to go."

"Fine, you can ride with him. But stay seated. It's going to be mayhem around him."

Blaine sat with Orrin in back of the ambulance as it sped away, sirens blaring. He gripped his friend's hand tightly, willing the irregular bleeps to continue until they got to the hospital.

They didn't.

Orrin flatlined not five minutes later.

That was when Blaine blacked out.

* * *

><p>The next thing Blaine knew, he was in a hospital bed feeling a little woozy. His left leg was encased in a foot-to-hip bandage and elevated by a system of pulleys, and there was an unbelievable pain coming from his chest. He attempted to move his right wrist to rub at his sternum, but soon discovered that it was covered in plaster. He then tried his left wrist, which he found to be bruised but free of plaster. It hurt too much to move anything.<p>

A nurse rushed into the room.

"Hello Blaine. I'm Cathy Douglas."

Blaine shivered at how clinical it all was. Then he remembered why he was there.

"Where's Orrin? Is he okay? Did they resuscitate him?" he asked frantically. He just wanted to know his friend was okay.

Cathy shushed him: she'd never seen a teenager so alert after a general anaesthetic in all her years in the profession. He _had_ to calm down. But he also had to be told that his friend was dead, and she'd rather it be her than heartless old Dr. Montrose.

First, she shook her head. It was always best to prepare the patient before the words were spoken.

"He didn't make it. I'm so sorry." They felt over-rehearsed and wrong, as they did every time she said them.

Blaine folded in on himself as his emotions instantly converted themselves into physical pain. Though she'd spoken those words more than a hundred times, Cathy had only seen the broken expression that looked back at her once before: it had been on a dying woman who could feel herself slipping away from her beautiful day-old son. That had been more than twenty years ago, but she'd never forget that face. She knew she'd never forget this one, either.

A sob came, followed by many more in quick succession.

"I don't care, then. Don't bother. Don't bother with anything. I can't live without him," Blaine wept.

Cathy knew he shouldn't be crying like this in the state he was in. Then again, she reflected, he shouldn't really be sentient either; that pain medication would have knocked most people out for six. This boy had just had major surgery on his leg and wrist, and his ribs were so badly broken he was lucky they hadn't punctured any of his organs. Somehow, though, he was becoming increasingly alert by the second. This was not a normal patient.

She tried to calm the sobbing boy.

"Do you want to know what they did in your surgery? If not, I can just leave you be."

Blaine's throbbing brain told him that the only thing worse than Cathy being there would be Cathy not being there. He couldn't be alone, not now. Not when he was feeling so dead on the inside.

He nodded through his tears.

"Okay, Blaine. I'm just going to go to that phone over there and call in your surgeon. I'll stay with you until he comes, and then I'll go and contact your parents."

Blaine heard nothing of what she'd said, but watched her as she left his bedside and made her way to the phone.

He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he remembered was a man in a white coat tapping him lightly on the shoulder.

"Blaine… Blaine… … … Blaine, wake up."

"Awaaaah?" It took him all of two seconds to remember where he was. The pain from losing Orrin descended a second later and he began to cry again, just as intensely as before.

"Blaine, I'm Dr. Montrose. I performed your surgery today. I am actually a friend of your father's, but I hear he's caught up in Washington and unable to come home for another couple of hours."

At this point, Blaine didn't really care about anything: Orrin was dead, and nothing would ever be right again. On the scale of indifference, though, his father's absence ranked very high indeed. He didn't give a shit if his father was in the hospital or on the dark side of the moon, it made no difference to him.

He stopped sobbing to listen to the surgeon properly. It would probably be helpful to know how long he'd be in hospital for; there was so much he needed to do before the funeral, so much he had to say to Orrin's parents and brother, so much to be organised and arranged. None of it could be done from a hospital bed.

Montrose began to list the procedures he'd performed during the four hour surgery that had stretched on throughout the night. The list was so long that Blaine could barely remember life existing before the surgeon had started speaking. On reflection, maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.

"Your left femur was smashed, so that is now held together with pins. It will need to remain elevated for a week. Your left patella was fractured, an injury that was exacerbated when you walked on it to seek help. That did not require surgery, but it will need to be kept in a brace and you won't be able to put any weight on it while it heals. We estimate that you'll be in a wheelchair for a few weeks, or until such a time as your arms and wrists are strong enough to support your weight."

He paused for breath, but Blaine knew it wasn't over.

"Moving on up the body, you have three badly broken ribs. There's nothing we can do about those, so just sit tight and they'll heal of their own accord. Finally, the arms: your left arm is heavily bruised but not broken, your right has a bad hairline fracture. We reset it with a pin while you were in surgery, which will eventually need to be removed. The ones in your legs, however, will remain there for life. You also lost two molars and one premolar, so you'll need to have some dental work at some point."

To Montrose's surprise, Blaine didn't seem even remotely fazed. The only emotion radiating from his body was a sadness so intense it stirred his chest just to look at him.

"How long will I be in the hospital? I need to get out, I need to see Orrin, I need to go to the funeral." The words just spilled out of his mouth. The pragmatic side of his brain seemed to have dissociated itself from the emotional part.

The surgeon shook his head; he couldn't believe how well this boy was functioning after so many painkillers, and that was without factoring in the reality that he had just been the victim of a _hate crime_. How had he even managed to get help with a left leg as severely injured as his had been? This was an extraordinary case. This was an extraordinary boy.

All this made telling Blaine the prognosis even harder. The elderly surgeon, who thought he'd seen and done it all, felt his heart breaking for the young man.

"I'm not sure whether attending the funeral will be feasible, Blaine. I should think you'll be in here for at least two weeks, if not more. Your pins will need some readjustment, and you'll have to start a course of intensive physiotherapy. And then you'll have to rest at home for a month or so on top of that."

Blaine felt the sobs start again, even more intense than before.

"I need to see him, I need to. It'll kill me if I can't."

And then he felt something hit him, something that made him feel as if his broken body had been trampled by a herd of elephants. His frame convulsed as he sobbed even harder than before.

"I never even said goodbye."

* * *

><p><strong>AN I'm so sorry Orrin's dead, so so sorry. I stalled on writing the kiss for **_**so **_**long over the weekend so I could delay writing the later scenes :( **

**It was always the plan that Orrin would die, but that doesn't make me any less saddened by the fact that he won't be getting the happy ending he deserves. I've always thought that the loss of someone so close and special would explain a lot about the way Blaine behaves on the show.**

**Hope I did this chapter justice. I found it really challenging to write.**

**Once again, I found the epigraph to this chapter in Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. I think the proverb pretty much sums up what I wanted this chapter to be about, so I'll write out what it says:**

_**Only an elephant can bear an elephant's load.**__** An Indian proverb: Only a great man can do the work of a great man; also, the burden is more than I can bear; it is a load fit for an elephant**_. **I think this is a rather beautiful idea. I'm kind of in love with this book. **


	6. An Elephant through a Keyhole

**Chapter 6: An Elephant Through A Keyhole**

_Love will draw an elephant through a keyhole_

_- Samuel Richardson_

* * *

><p>Against all the odds, mismatched scuffed sneakers were kicking at frost-hardened soil not three weeks after that fateful November evening.<p>

Kick. Kick. Icy chunk blown off. Kick. Kick. Kick. Pain. Kick. Kick. A pebble clanging against a green metal shed. Kick. Especially hard kick. More pain. Kick.

It was all Blaine Anderson could do to forget that nothing in his life would ever be right again, and it wasn't working very well. But that was fitting, considering Blaine wasn't working very well either. To the doctors, he had responded better than any patient had in the past: to be walking less than three weeks after such a catastrophic leg injury was practically unheard of, and that was without factoring in his badly broken ribs and pinned broken wrist. It had all been down to the efforts of the boy himself; he had thrown himself into the rigorous physiotherapy regime, diet plan and rehabilitatory exercises more thoroughly than anyone Dr Montrose could remember. But that was because no patient had hurt so badly on the inside that even the most severe external injuries paled into nothingness. Blaine Anderson was dead behind the eyes.

* * *

><p>Two weeks and four days. It felt like a heartbeat and a lifetime rolled into one whirlwind of pain boring its way through Blaine's hollow body. Physically, he had recovered enough to be discharged from the hospital. Yes, he was probably almost bionic with the sheer amount of metal lodged in his leg and yes, he still had a plaster cast on his arm setting the smashed bone back into place, but the bruising on his left wrist had gone down enough for him to support himself on a crutch and he was able to walk (hobble) around the Anderson compound as much as he wished. Which was not a lot; Blaine didn't really feel like doing anything at all. It was as if some kind of parasitic osmosis had occurred; his body was growing stronger, imbibing its strength from Blaine's increasingly tormented mind. And wounds on the inside are not so easily patched up.<p>

It wasn't even their longest separation. Yet. Blaine still fully expected to see that shock of blonde hair beside the gates while he fumbled with that stupid key fob on the blue elephant chain. He could still feel the soft touch of ties slipping around necks, hands smoothing gel across hair, lips saying volumes without any words being spoken. Eighteen mornings had hardened on the Anderson wall, and eighteen times Blaine had had to remind himself that Orrin would not be coming by that day. Or any day.

The hardest part was that had all been so sudden: Orrin had been so very alive, more alive than anyone Blaine had ever known, and now he was gone forever. A single evening had contained the very best of what they had become, but at the terrible cost of depriving them of everything that was to be rightfully theirs. Orrin hadn't slipped away, he'd gone in a singular terrible flash: completely present to shockingly absent, all in the space of a four or five hours.

And Blaine was already forgetting the sound of Orrin's voice.

Kick. Kick. FUCK EVERYTHING. KICK. Pain. Kick…. Kick. Scuff. Kick.

* * *

><p>Karen was largely preoccupied with laying out an expansive buffet in the dining room; Michael was returning that night with a jetful of his political cronies, none of whom aware that the manslaughter (<em>alleged<em> hate crime) making national headlines involved the Congressman's very own teenage son. Some jobsworth journalist would make the link soon enough and then all hell would break loose, Karen was sure of it, but the connection had not yet been made. The Republican campaign managers were working hard to suppress the coverage and the identities of those involved, so Blaine was safe, for now. He really was coping remarkably well, she reflected, casting her eyes up and down the impeccable tablecloth for any hint of a crease. On a single day, Blaine had come out to her, had all his hair cut off, worn contact lenses for the first time, attended his first dance, had his first kiss (if the police reports were to be believed), and lost his best friend. He'd lost his fucking best friend. Who was she kidding, Orrin was his _only _friend. And she'd read in those same reports that her son had been the one to run for help, despite having had his leg smashed to pieces. He was such an exemplary boy, so well put together. So remarkably we –

And that was when she saw him. _Really_ saw him. It was through double doors and across half an acre of perfectly striped turf, but it was clear enough to startle her senseless. Blaine was in that place again, what was it? Yes, the elephant's graveyard, that was the one. He was leaning on a crutch, mindlessly kicking at the rock-hard turf. _With his left leg_. She winced just looking at him. What was he doing? Her thoughts suddenly took an involuntary turn towards Michael and that Jumbo Anthology thing he used to be so fond of reciting. What had it said? She foraged around in her memories for several seconds, her mind nowhere near as agile as her son's.

Chills shot through her limbs and her mind went numb as she recalled the entry verbatim:

_A place where, according to legend, older elephants instinctively direct themselves when they reach a certain age. They then die there alone, far from the group._

Was that what Blaine was doing? How had she missed this, how had they passed these eighteen tortuous days without discussing it _at all_? And why was she laying out a buffet? She was the shittiest, most terrible mother in the history of the world. It took one heartbreaking moment for her to realise that her son had lost the person who had brought him up and parented him, because she and her husband sure as hell hadn't. Orrin was the single most important thing to Blaine's identity, and he was gone. She couldn't even begin to understand how that must feel.

But she understood loss. She definitely understood that. And before long she had unthinkingly unlocked the French doors and set out across the turf, braving the winter air in nothing more than a cocktail dress.

He was still kicking.

* * *

><p>FUCK EVERYTHING. KICK. Pain. Kick… Kick. Scuff. Kick.<p>

Warm arms around his waist.

Soft breaths on his neck.

Orrin?

Heartbreak. Complete and utter despair, followed by more utterly complete despair. And then even more.

It was his mom. Why was she there? Oh, the cocktail party. She probably wanted him to disappear out of sight. She probably wanted that to apply as a general rule now she knew about his gayness (and that he'd acted on it). Trust her to find a way to make him realise that his rock bottom could in fact sink deeper. Heartless bitch.

"What do you want?" It came out even more aggressively than it had seemed in his head, and that was saying a lot.

"Blaine, I'm so sorry."

Oh. Oh… Blaine wondered what she could be apologising for. Everything that had happened? The general suckishness of his life? Or her shitty parenting? It could be any, or all, of those.

But the wondering part of Blaine's brain was soon quelled by the aggressive, angry part. It was winning battles like these a lot nowadays.

"Sorry I'm gay? Well, fuck you. I know your life would be a damn sight easier if your stupid little friends and shitty little parties didn't have to be polluted by the rainbows streaming out of my ass, but here's news for you: I CAN'T DO A FUCKING THING ABOUT IT. Trust me, I've tried. Don't you think it's a little insensitive to come and tell me to hide, to go to my room to get myself away from your friends who aren't really friends? YOU DON'T HAVE A SINGLE FUCKING FRIEND. NOT A REAL ONE. And do you really think I'd _choose _this, that I'd –"

She didn't really digest anything of what her son had said. "Blaine, calm down. Your being gay is one of the few things I'm not sorry about."

Silence.

Then he just sobbed. No tears, just his chest convulsing in rapid up and down motions. Bad for his ribs, good for his soul.

"I'm so sorry this happened to you. So sorry. You don't deserve it at all."

"OF COURSE I FUCKING DON'T." She'd never heard him explode like this. She was achieving the impossible: she was making Blaine sink _lower_ than he already was. Good going Karen.

"I understand."

"NO YOU DON'T." Her heart leapt in sadness and grief, because she _did _understand, she absolutely did. But her son, her own son, wouldn't let her in. And it was all her fault. This, she thought, was the worst she could possibly feel.

But it wasn't. That came when Blaine's voice went icy cold, losing all the life (albeit fiery and consumed with anger) it had had just seconds before.

"What would you know? You never had to deal with all the stuff I've had to deal with without your own family supporting you. I had to find my own way of getting over it, and that way turned out to be O – O – Orrin. Orrin. And now I've lost him. And lost everything that could have been."

"Did you want him to be your boyfriend?" It slipped out before she could help it.

"GAY PEOPLE DON'T JUST WANT TO FUCK EACH OTHER, MOM. WE KISSED AS FRIENDS BECAUSE WE DESERVED A DANCE JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE."

His voice was suddenly quiet again. "We deserved it _more_ than everyone else."

And then he hobbled off towards the house. She didn't follow him in case he tried to move too quickly in his haste to get away from her. It was a terrible but very real concern.

It was only in the sudden quiet that followed that her son's words began to float around her head.

_Lost everything that could have been._

_Getting over it. _

_Without your own family supporting you_.

Yes, Blaine needed his father. That wasn't to say it wasn't going to be a complete train wreck of a conversation, especially with Blaine's current emotional state, but it had to be tried. It had to be.

* * *

><p>The door slammed closed and laughs were soon filling the vestibule. It was just about the most inappropriate sound Karen had ever heard. Her practised ear picked out ten laughs, in this case meaning ten guests; Michael's, she knew, would not be an eleventh.<p>

She swept out into the hallway, skilfully intercepting her husband before any of their allies would realise he had gone. She pulled him next to the shoe closet, and began to whisper frantically in his ear.

"Blaine's broken, Michael. Completely broken. You need to speak to him."

"What? No, you should do that."

"Tried and failed."

"No. I can't do it Karen, I really can't."

The guests would be wanting attention soon, Karen could feel it. So she began to whisper and shout at her husband all at the same time.

"Michael, listen to me right now." She grabbed his jacket, almost shaking him. "We had one shot at this parenting thing. One. We had to raise a son and love and support him unconditionally. The fact is, we've fucked it up as much as it is possible to fuck it up. You remember how devastated we were when I had to have my ovaries removed? You remember how risky it all was, how they found the cancer on the same day as – "

"I remember." He just wanted her to stop.

She didn't.

"We were so saddened that our baby wouldn't be getting a brother or a sister, but now I'm almost relieved that we didn't get the chance to fuck up twice. Imagine if we could hear ourselves fifteen years ago, Michael. Look at what's happened to us."

Michael had made speeches in the House, held his own at conferences attended by some of the best minds in the world, and talked his way into the heart of the Republican establishment. But he had no idea how to communicate with his son. At all.

"I wouldn't know where to start. The talking, I mean."

"Well think of something."

Then she walked off, leaving him to it.

* * *

><p>The sound of music on the radio spilled out into the upstairs landing, becoming louder as Michael approached his son's bedroom. He'd have to tell him to turn it down, that would be a good opening to the conversation. Yes. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.<p>

He opened the door; knocking would have been pointless anyway.

He saw his son and did a double take, and not just because of the hair (which was still a shock each time he saw him). No, the main reason for this episode of disbelief was that the music had stopped. Well, the singing had. The backing track was still going.

That radio, that singing. That had been Blaine. His son. And god could he sing.

Michael had meant his first words to be congratulatory, he really had. But mind and mouth didn't necessarily cooperate, especially when he felt so terribly out of his depth.

"So, you're gay then."

Oh god, did he actually just say that?

"Yes dad." Blaine shifted uncomfortably, but mostly because he hated singing in front of other people. Especially, he now knew, his father.

"No one can know." Michael wanted his son to be protected; the newspaper hounds were lurking, he could tell. He just hoped Blaine would be sufficiently recovered to handle the shit storm when it inevitably hit.

"Fuck you."

"Right."

The door closed, and that was the end of it.

Well, it ought to have been. But Michael remembered something. He said it through the door, noticing that the music had not recommenced.

"Blaine, I am transferring you to Dalton. You'll have to do your freshman year again, which will be boring but necessary. You start in August."

Blaine sighed: for once, his father had done something right. Not that he cared. August was so far away, he might not even be alive then.

* * *

><p>He turned his music back up, and continued to sing.<p>

Then he picked up his phone and dialled Blanche Blake's number.

"Yes, I'll do it."

A pause while someone on the other end responded.

"I know. I feel like half of me has been hacked away."

Another pause as a single tear ran down his cheek.

"Yes, the best funeral the world has ever seen. He deserves it."

And for the first time in eighteen hard days, a small flame was kindled in Blaine's belly. He didn't give two hoots about his father's political standing or his face appearing in the papers, all he knew was that he owed everything that he was (and continued to be) to Orrin.

Repayment should begin as soon as possible.


	7. Not Shooting an Elephant

**Chapter 7: Not Shooting an Elephant**

_Love makes us act like we are fools,_

_Throwing our lives away, _

_For one happy day,_

_We could be heroes…_

_- Elephant Love Medley_

And so the fluctuations continued, day after day, as Blaine's scuffed and battered heart swelled with hopeful anticipation each time he caught a glimpse of shocking blonde hair or arresting green eyes. They seemed to follow him everywhere, with the only non-ubiquitous part of Orrin being the kind, selfless boy himself. Blaine's ribs were sore from the continuous ache of empty disappointment, and though his body was healing up pretty well, the invisible wound in his chest tore further through his heart with each day that passed. Blaine was lost, spending his days in the freezing elephant's graveyard kicking dirt, day after day after day. After day.

But after today, it would be the day of the funeral. It had been the only thing keeping Blaine going, the liferaft in his sea of despair. He had thrown himself into every detail, and had sat with Blanche as they cast their sparkless eyes over the casket choices, caterer details and the order of service. He had been determined to make it there and he'd do it, but it still seemed like this dissociate, irrelevant thing. It still felt as if Orrin was on a long holiday; Blaine still expected to see a shock of blonde hair and arresting green eyes waiting outside the cast iron gates, he still longed for Orrin's fast comebacks to satisfy his now withering wit, he needed to be put back together by the embrace of the only person with the capability of repairing his broken soul. Yes he was arranging a funeral, but it wasn't _Orrin's _funeral. Yet.

* * *

><p>Old leaves, blackened with decay, squelched as the silence was broken. It was Karen. Again. She never seemed to leave him alone. It was like he was on suicide watch or something. Either that or she wanted to tell him something he wouldn't want to hear, it was inevitably one of the two.<p>

"Blainey?" she whispered.

Anger simmered with grief in his chest, boiling up in his throat as it bubbled up towards his vocal cords. But it only came out as a whimper.

"Don't call me that. _Please_."

"Blaine."

"Yes?"

"I don't think it'd be wise for you to go tomorrow." It came out as one long word.

"It won't make me feel any worse than I do now," Blaine replied, his quiet voice almost lost in the biting winter air.

"That's not why."

Blaine looked up at her, making eye contact for the first time since Orrin's death. She felt as if she was under the scrutinising spotlight of the Staples Center, and avoided his gaze.

"Your father will be there."

Blaine's heart leapt. Maybe his father was finally coming through. Blaine immediately decided he'd be willing to give him another chance.

But she continued.

"As will the Press. The National Press."

Blaine felt his chest turn upside down as his scant hope twisted itself into an ugly rage.

"HOW DARE HE? HOW DARE HE USE MY FRIEND AND MY LIFE AS A POLITICAL VEHICLE. HOW _LOW _ARE YOU PEOPLE?"

"He doesn't plan on telling anyone about his personal connection to the tragedy, for your sake."

Blaine laughed, hollow and raw. "MY SAKE? YOU _BELIEVE _THAT? HOW STUPID ARE YOU?"

As it happened, Karen didn't believe it for a second.

Blaine's voice suddenly became very low and very quiet as he cast his unseeing eyes over the rotting leaves.

"Why is he so ashamed of me?"

He swayed on the spot for a moment before feeling himself wrapped in thin, wiry arms. It felt all wrong.

"He isn't ashamed of you," Karen whispered into his ear, believing the words about as much as she believed in flying elephants.

But then a flat voice came back at her.

"I'm still going."

A pause as Blaine deliberated whether he should supply Karen with a piece of information known only to him, Blanche and her husband Alban. In a split decision, he went with it.

"I'll be delivering the eulogy."

Silence returned as the tiny part of Karen's heart not bursting with pride attempted to communicate the real world problems that invariably ruined all good intentions.

"Do you realise what this means? Your anonymity will be gone, you'll be all over the papers, everyone will know you're gay and your father will be very, very angry. Can you really handle that right now?"

Silence.

Then Blaine's voice took on a strength it had been missing for almost three weeks.

"I don't care."

"Well in that case I'll be coming with you."

She turned away and walked towards the house before he form a single word of protest.

* * *

><p>Every check of the time updated the countdown clock Blaine felt ticking deep within his being. It coexisted only with anxiety and doubt.<p>

24 hours. Kicking leaves.

12 hours. Trying (and failing) to sleep.

4 hours. Going over the eulogy for the trillionth time. Cramming a wrist enlarged by a plaster cast into a crisp black jacket, sloppy insides being held together by a Horton exoskeleton.

Five minutes. Tie tweaked. Eyes looked up at the starry azure ceiling of All Saints Church. Karen's hand was on his back. A sick feeling rolled around the emptiness inside him like a marble in a jam jar.

One minute. Taking a seat in the front row next to Blanche Blake. Numbness of mind and soul.

Organ music. Bach.

Vision was restored by the powerful but entirely transient healing powers of denial.

A freshly-polished oak casket was brought in, the flowers on top red and white to match those placed around the church (as per Blaine's insistence).

The rites began. Blaine still couldn't believe it at all. He shouldn't be here. He may as well take it in, he supposed. He still felt lost, though.

Blaine looked more deeply and saw a line of old ladies, all friends of Orrin's grandmother from the home down the road. He smirked, remembering what Orrin had said about his 'little problem' at his great aunt's funeral. Why wasn't Orrin here, anyway? He'd find this _so _entertaining, it was all just _so _him.

And then in front of a churchful of people, at what must be the worst moment to make the worst realisation of your life, Blaine remembered that Orrin _was _there: that was Orrin's body in that polished oak casket, all these people knew (or knew of) Orrin, Orrin was never going to come back. This was it.

And he sobbed and everyone stared at him while pretending not to.

Meanwhile the priest blathered on. Orrin was a son, Orrin was a friend, Orrin was kind, Orrin was gentle, Orrin was selfless, Orrin was a student at Westerville East, Orrin had been on the news (incidentally, we must all welcome Congressman Anderson, isn't he marvellous for joining us etcetera etcetera etcetera), Orrin was a Christian, Orrin was the victim of an ambiguous hate crime that we all know about but will not speak of.

But Blaine didn't really hear any of that. Well, none of it except 'Orrin _was_'. And that was all that was important.

* * *

><p>"And now Orrin's best friend, Mr. Blaine Anderson, will read the eulogy."<p>

An unknown something moved Blaine's feet as he propelled himself towards the lectern. It felt very momentous and very much like nothing all at once.

A shuddering breath as several hundred gazes fell upon him.

An unfelt wave of murmurings and whispers. Was this 'theotherboy'? And _Anderson_, hadn't that name come up elsewhere in the service? No, no, it couldn't be. Eyes turned back to the Congressman: straight greying hair, long nose, defined jaw. It was the deadness behind identical hazel eyes that really gave it away. Slight smiles as each person came to the same conclusion. Eyes back to the front.

And he began in a clear voice that rang out throughout the church.

It all began very simply. "Orrin was born to Alban and Blanche here in Westerville." He was simply reading out the paragraph Blanche had written for him, his head buried in the paper.

"And I then met Orrin."

Now Blaine was on his own. He cast the paper aside, the essence of what he wanted to say imprinted on his memory as strongly as his own name. He gathered the courage to look out over the whole congregation.

"Orrin was my best friend. We met on Main Street when I was eleven and he thirteen, just after I had just been bullied by the very same people who…" His voice died away, everyone catching the insinuation.

But then it returned, stronger than before, and he stood a little straighter. "… and he came and made everything right for the first time in my life, really. I guess in a funny way it's kind of circular: we started as we ended, with him saving me from bullies who couldn't handle the fact that I was different. The first time, it was because I carried a toy elephant. The second, because I was, well am, gay."

Murmurs spread throughout the church. Was it really true?

"He held my hand when he picked me off the ground, I held his hand as he… as he _died_ in the ambulance."

A sob from Karen; she hadn't known he'd been there, no one told her anything.

"Even as he lay dying on the ground, he could only think of me and my wellbeing. He was the first person I came out to- I told him as soon as I was sure. It took me another two years and a lot of encouragement from him to come out again, so that says a lot about just how much I trust him. And now he has inspired me to say this in front of all of you today, against every piece of advice I have been given, because he gave up his dreams, his future and his life so that I would have the opportunity to continue living mine. He made the ultimate sacrifice to give me the most precious gift in the world, and I don't know how I can ever thank him. A thank you can never be enough. But thank you, Orrin, thank you forever."

But that wasn't the end. Blaine struggled to fight back the tears that threatened to overwhelm him.

"And now Blaine will be singing 'Come What May' from _Moulin Rouge_, which was Orrin's favourite song."

Karen's breath hitched in her throat. If there was one thing she _did _know about her son, it was that he had never shown any inclination towards singing at all. Not in the slightest. She knew he'd do anything for Orrin, she just hoped he wouldn't be terr-

_Never knew I could feel like this,_

_Like I've never seen the sky before,_

Her son was incredible. The emotion seeped through his voice, tingeing it with an imperfect husk that just made it all the more perfectly powerful. And there was something about it being a duet sung by a soloist; though Blaine was singing both parts brilliantly, there was something that was poignantly absent. At that moment, she realised that half of Blaine was lying in that coffin with Orrin. And after that moment, she broke down as her heart split in two for her son and his best friend. It just wasn't fair.

_Come what may, come what may,_

_And I will love you until my dying day._

And then Blaine sobbed. Blanche sobbed. Alban sobbed. Wesley Montgomery, a member of that same church who had vaguely known Orrin, sobbed. Every eye was wet.

Well, every eye except six.

The priest, who had led enough tragic services to become somewhat distanced from them, felt emotion stirring deep within his chest and vowed to pray for everyone involved.

Congressman Anderson wasn't crying either; cameras and reporters were about and it would appear cheap or weak or both.

And the remaining two dry eyes, set in a face very similar to that of the Congressman, belonged to Michael Sr. They were bent into a menacing frown that made the small eyeglasses perched on his nose slide against his scrunched-up face.

A whisper cut through the salty air.

"I'm very disappointed."


	8. The Elephants in the Room

**Chapter 8: The Elephants in the Room**

An old man's booming voice thundered through the house.

"You weren't assertive enough, that's how this happened."

"Well…"

"No, I'm telling you son, your career is going to the dogs. That son of yours has essentially undermined every vote you've taken against homosexuals with one sentimental little speech. This'll be hitting the headlines tomorrow, and there's nothing you'll be able to do to stop it."

"I know, I'm disappointed in his judgement."

"I'm disappointed in him. He's probably risked it all for one stupid phase."

Nothing came in response but an unheard whisper. "I'm pretty sure it isn't a phase, father."

The conversation continued for several more minutes, drifting up the stairwell from the kitchen below. Blaine, curled up on his bed, listened attentively while staring blankly at the navy covers through hazy eyes. He still had his suit on from the funeral earlier that day, and the tears made his contacts sting. As he was walking back from the mirror after replacing them with his glasses, he noticed that two small envelopes had been pushed under the door. Both were addressed to him, though the handwriting was different on each.

The first was recognisably Karen's: it was neat and italicised, and a perfectly straight line had been as drawn under his name. He ripped it open unthinkingly, not even pausing to wonder what it was. He stuck his fingers into the envelope, giving himself a paper cut in his eagerness to see what lay inside. It was a photograph, that much was apparent. He looked closer. There were two boys, one an inch or two shorter than the other, walking into the light with their hands linked. They were barely more than two silhouettes against the golden sunset framed by the open doorway. And then Blaine realised that the shorter boy was him. And that the taller boy was Orrin. And that once, not so long ago, he had been completely and unreservedly happy. His breath hitched in his throat: it was all so bittersweet, the one image somehow able to communicate every last bit of the glory and tragedy of the only true friendship he'd ever had. He stuck the picture into his photo album, giving it its own page, and looked at it for a few more minutes. Then, when the coexistence of pain and joy became too confusing, he vowed never to look at it again.

He felt as if he'd been trampled but still found himself reaching for the larger second envelope, his throbbing brain in no position to evaluate the risk-reward ratio. Opening it, he found two more letters. He unfolded the first one, the crisply-folded paper whiter than any he'd seen before.

_Dear Blaine,_

_I wanted to say this to you in person but I couldn't find you after the burial. This is a note of thanks really, though the size of this thank you is hard to communicate through something as cold as black ink on pulped wood. First and foremost, I'd like to thank you for the input you had on the order of service. Your eulogy was beautiful and your song was just about as heartbreaking as any sound I've heard in my life. I know you said that would be the only time you could ever bear to have your voice heard in performance, but please do continue – you really have something, I promise. We managed to sum up who Orrin was in a single event, and that was largely down to you._

_Secondly, thank you for having the courage to be honest in front of all those people. I realise that your father's position makes it even more difficult to be true to yourself, but you were a true inspiration today. The priest was clearly skirting around Orrin's sexuality, but you were brave enough to address it head-on. It was an important part of who Orrin was (and, I hope, will continue to be as he continues to influence us) and it would have been a shame had it not been addressed._

_My third and final thank you is for the support you gave Orrin throughout your friendship. It would be easy to see what you had as rather one-sided given Orrin's actions on that awful night, but I know differently. Yes, Orrin bore your load and gave you your life, but you were there for him when he was at his weakest: you knowingly put your opportunities, privilege and safety aside to help him when you chose Westerville East over Dalton, and your trust in him gave him a self-assuredness he could never otherwise have attained. I am completely sure that had the situations been reversed, you would have made the ultimate sacrifice for him. Do not ever consider yourself a coward, Blaine, because you are anything but. Orrin would have wanted you to know that._

_News on the trial is not so good. We can't afford a decent lawyer, yet the defendants have employed the best active barrister in the state. They're pleading manslaughter, citing 'unreasonable levels of provocation' and 'not knowing punches could cause internal bleeding'. Both equally ridiculous. I don't really want to go into it right now, it largely depends on the witness testimonies._

_And one more thing. Check the envelope: there is one other letter and a small token that was always intended to be yours. Orrin's brother Robin, Alban and I decided you should have it immediately. Wear it always. Please keep in touch with us; you have so much of Orrin's spirit, and it would break our hearts if we ever lost contact with you._

_All our love,_

_Blanche, Alban and Robin_

It felt so peculiar to read those three names without the fourth. The numbness had returned completely, and Blaine reached down into the envelope to retrieve the final two objects. The first was an elephant charm on a chain, hallmarked on its foot to show that it was silver. The second was a piece of folded pink notepaper. On the plain outside, Blanche had used a pencil to write four heartbreaking words.

_Found in Orrin's jacket._

The tears came back. It couldn't be true, it couldn't be: this was too much, too unexpected, too sudden. But his fingers disobeyed his brain and unfolded the letter regardless. It was clear that Blanche had left it untouched.

_Hey Blainey,_

_This is for you because I know you like elephants: I found it in a box at Horton's three years ago and bought it off the manager for like $15, clearly he didn't understand hallmarks. What a moron. I've been carrying it around for ages but only just found the right moment to give it to you. Anyway, here's to many more years of friendship. I won't forget you when I'm in college and I promise that you can come visit me whenever you want – you're not getting rid of me that easily! You're my best friend, and you've made my dreams of going to a high school dance with another boy come completely true. You're like my fairy godfather or something, but please refrain from prancing around with a wand (I know you're tempted). Thank you for being so brave and courageous, you really do inspire me every day._

_Love always,_

_Orrin_

And that was it, the last piece of communication to pass between the two of them. Much more than most people can expect to receive from someone who is already dead and buried. Blaine unclasped the pendant and brought his hands up around his neck. It took a several attempts, namely because the plaster cast continued to be incredibly cumbersome, but eventually he had it fastened. It sat just below his clavicle, just above his heart. Blaine promised himself that few people would see it and that no one would ever know its significance – it could be what the kiss ought to have been, a secret between the two of them with the power to bridge life and death. It was beautiful. Blaine looked at it for a few more moments, memorising every detail of the wrinkled skin and bending trunk, before he stuffed it under his shirt and out of sight.

He didn't hear the conclusion to the conversation downstairs.

"I have to represent my son, it's the only option." Michael desperately wracked his brain for an argument not based on familial love. Suddenly, one came to him: public appearances, that old saviour. "Plus, think of what I would look like as a father if I didn't step in to help my boy."

"This is a very grey legal area, son. I thought we were running a risk by attending the funeral, that's why I came, to make sure you didn't do anything stupid. As it turns out, though, there was a congregation of Agatha Christies who could work it out before we even had a chance to put our feet in it. We're in trouble, especially with your campaign for Senator running as it is."

"I'm still doing it."

"Well then you're foolhardy and unworthy of my attention. Sort this situation out before I am forced to declare my support for another candidate."

A door slammed as Michael Sr. retreated to the secluded luxury of his chauffer-driven car.

* * *

><p>The newspapers came out the next day. As is often the case with such things, they focussed very little on Blaine's beautiful tribute or the circumstances of Orrin's death. No, apparently the main issue of the day was how much Blaine's sexuality matched with his father's voting records. Which was not at all. Michael had consistently voted against gay marriage, gay adoption, gay surrogacy, anti-discrimination bills, everything. But at least he did not deviate from his political line. The journalists, meanwhile, were piling layers of hypocrisy upon layers of hypocrisy, claiming that Michael was nothing but an opportunistic sell-out. They failed to mention that the voters who influenced him were themselves swayed by the anti-gay articles vomited into the world by their very own publications almost weekly. Thankfully, Blaine decided not to read a word of it.<p>

Michael, however, read every letter of every article. His poll ratings had taken a dive and his chances at becoming Senator were next to none, but he really was struggling to care. In an instant he decided to put his electioneering for the Senate on the backburner and have others run the campaign for him. He blew the dust off of all his trusty law books, delighting in the fact that, unlike those opinion polls, they never changed. He'd never even wanted to be a politician anyway; he lived, breathed, ate and slept the practice of law, which was just as well considering the challenge he was now facing. He put in a call to his office to announce that he would be handing the control of his campaign to someone else and then whipped out a pen to take notes on manslaughter and civil rights. He was determined to win the case, even if it did appear that he was making the biggest political u-turn the world had ever seen. Some things, a few but some, were more important than votes.

What followed next was a series of interviews with witnesses, of whom the most important was Blaine. Michael quickly discovered that being well-versed in the ways of the law did not correspond with an ability to deal with an angry and tormented teenage son. Blaine was _very _angry, and not just with Orrin's death but with Michael himself. And he was deeply, deeply suspicious. This smelt strongly of electioneering, but the Blakes had to take what they'd been offered: Michael Anderson was after all the best lawyer in the state, and he was working for free.

And though Michael tried to keep the sessions as formal and professional as possible (even hiring out a private office away from the family home), the father-son relationship just made the whole thing upsetting and terribly awkward.

"So Blaine, had there been any instances of bullying before the incident at the Sadie Hawkins?"

"Yes, we were both physically bullied daily. Orrin was bullied for being gay, I was bullied because of my association with him. And because of a series of rumours about my own sexuality, which I never confirmed but never denied." Michael's legal mind throbbed with anticipation as this was vital to the case, but his fatherly heart shattered as he realised that his son had not felt able to turn to his own family for help.

"Why, then, did you go to the dance together? You knew the risks, surely." Michael couldn't ascertain whether this was the father's question or the lawyer's.

"Because Orrin was desperate to go to the dance with another boy. We felt as if we deserved it after all we'd been through."

"Okay." Michael glanced down at the next questions, and grimaced as he prepared to ask them. The father in him did not want to know the answer _at all_.

"Were the two of you dating?"

"I don't think so, no."

"Why are you not certain?"

"Because we kissed. Like properly. That's why they attacked us…" he drifted off, but Michael gave him an awkward but reassuring nod to urge him to continue. "We did it as friends, because it was a beautiful evening and because every other couple there was kissing. _I_ wouldn't define that as a relationship, but we were certainly more than friends – we were between the two. And I told the EMT he was my boyfriend so I could ride in the ambulance with him."

Michael gave an involuntarily frown as he meditated over the point at which a friendship flooded into relationship territory.

"I don't think you were dating," he concluded.

"Neither do I."

"Okay."

Silence.

"Were you sexually active?"

Blaine coughed with shock and surprise and went a fierce shade of red.

"I'll take that as a no, right?"

"No, we didn't have sex."

"Any form at all?"

Michael took a breath to expand on what he was saying, but Blaine jumped in. This was so awkward.

"No."

"Were the defendants under the impression that you were?"

Blaine thought back. "Perhaps. They did suggest that Orrin had 'spread the gay' to me. I'm not sure whether they think it is an STD or not, but they are clearly severely misinformed either way." A pause as a disturbing thought whirred around in Blaine's mind. "Why would that matter, anyway? He's still dead. I don't see why their crime would be less severe if they thought we were having… having sex with each other. It's not like we should be punished for it."

Blaine was getting impatient and angry. Michael was beginning to understand why.

"I agree with you."

From his father's voting record (which he and Orrin had fastidiously followed since they'd figured out the Internet could be used for more than Neopets and Online Tetris), Blaine had always assumed that Michael was a homophobe. This was apparently not the case.

"Can I ask you a question? Like, ask you as my dad and not as my lawyer?"

Michael braced himself for a searching question on the mechanics of gay sex, but it never came. Indeed, the question that was asked instead was a thousand times more awkward and unsettling than any he could have prepared himself for.

"Why did you vote against people like me?"

A pause.

He went for direct honesty. "Because it was the view of my electorate and I wanted the votes."

"Oh." Blaine was disappointed in him but unsurprised.

"And I guess I couldn't see the effect of what I was doing. Or what I wasn't doing. After all, I only occasionally voted in favour of bills that would impose more restrictions on homosexuals. I mostly voted against the granting more rights."

"Same difference really, though, isn't it?" Blaine's eyes sparked briefly as they looked directly into Michael's soul, reminding his father for the umpteenth time that there was an incredible brain sitting on those young shoulders. The boy got up from his seat. "Well, I'm going now. Unless there's anything else you wanted to know."

And out of the blue, a question made itself known to Michael.

_Can you ever forgive me?_

It spun around his head several times before falling dead between his voice box and his lips. He would have to wait for another occasion, because Blaine was already out of the room and halfway down the corridor. And so concluded the first real conversation they'd had in almost five years.

* * *

><p>Between the preparation for the trial and the event itself came the small matter of the Dalton admissions procedure. Sure, Michael Anderson had promised Blaine he could transfer, but he still had to get in like anyone else. They'd set the date back a few weeks to allow Blaine more recovery time, and by the time Michael's Maybach was pulling up in front of the school, the pins and cast on Blaine's wrist had been removed leaving behind nothing more than a discreet bandage. Blaine had had his hair cut the day before and had tried to slick it back as Orrin had before that fateful night, but he'd used too much gel and it looked odd. He'd had his teeth fixed as well (thankfully no brace this time), making him feel more together than he had in weeks. Empty, but cohesive.<p>

* * *

><p>As with many interviews, the day began with an IQ and vocabulary test. Blaine didn't sweat over either of them, having done thousands in the past. Then came the Maths, Italian and Literature. These were much, much more difficult, many times harder than any test he'd sat before. But then came the interview with both father and son, the component Blaine (and Michael, given the recent press coverage) dreaded most of all.<p>

"So Blaine, I have read about your story. Of course," Principal Baines began, looking over his half moon glasses at the two men in front of him.

Blaine was unsettled from the start; this was exactly the kind of school he'd heard horror stories about. Still, nothing could be as bad as Westerville East.

"And I'd just like to say how sorry we all were to hear about it."

What?

"Why didn't you come to Dalton in the first place? It says here that you were at Collège Saint Kentigern for middle school, and that's one of our main feeder schools. What made you choose a public school?"

Michael opened his mouth to give a diplomatic answer, but Blaine got there first.

"I transferred to be there for my friend."

"Orrin Blake?" Principal Baines said automatically. Blaine nodded sadly, still finding it bizarre that people he'd never met knew all about his and Orrin's lives.

Principal Baines cast his eyes over the boy in front of him and knew that the rest of the interview was pointless. "Blaine, I'll be straight with you." He cringed inwardly at the inadvertent double meaning, but neither of the other men seemed to notice. "I'm going to offer you an unconditional place at our school, beginning whenever you feel ready. You may have to resit the freshman year, but if you can catch up you'll be able to graduate the class on time. Now, I'd like to get to know you a bit better. Do you have any hobbies or interests?"

Remembering Blanche's plea, Blaine took a deep breath. "I'm interested in music and theatre."

"Well, we have a well-equipped theatre department here constructed by Neil Lander, a Broadway lighting designer. And we have The Warblers. The Warblers are… well, they're extraordinary. They are our chapel choir and they have won choral prizes all over the country. Their history runs as long as the school's, as does their tradition of singing a capella in their spare time. I believe they have decided to compete on both circuits next year, choral and show choir, simply because many Warblers wish to become members of similar groups when they are at college and want experience of competitive a capella singing. I do warn you though, they have a very rigorous audition process. People joke that it is more difficult to get into The Warblers than it is to pass the school's admissions test."

Blaine's heart sunk. What if he failed? He'd found the exams pretty difficult: maybe they'd revoke the unconditional offer, maybe they would think he was too dense for the intense academic rigour of this amazing school. One thing was certain: he didn't want to miss out on any of this.

Just as he was panicking, a dishevelled bony woman entered the room.

"Oh, hello Romy," Principal Baines said in a kindly but booming voice, "Do you have Blaine's test results?" He looked back at the two men on the other side of the desk before explaining, "This is Romy Marchmont, our Vice Principal. She teaches Literature."

The skinny woman's mismatched clothes flapped like a flag on a pole as she ran around the desk to whisper in the Principal's ear. Blaine's brain thudded arrhythmically in his head.

"By God," the Principal thundered.

Blaine froze, fully expecting to have failed every test miserably.

Romy could barely contain herself and was practically bursting out of her skin with excitement. "You dropped three marks over the entire test. That's a school record," she said in her singsong voice, delighted that a such a gifted academic would be joining the school.

Meanwhile, Blaine heaved a sigh of relief as he felt his father awkwardly pat him on the back. Principal Baines continued to gape for a good few minutes of uncomfortable silence before he managed to regain the power of speech.

"Well for that, young man, I will be at your beck and call. I'd offer you a 75% scholarship if I wasn't so sure you'd decline it. But anything you want or need, I'll listen. We want to keep boys like you at this school; you're right on track for the best colleges in the country."

A smile passed over his face, disappearing as quickly as it had come. A very serious idea had occurred to him, something that was radical enough to stop him from feeling on edge each time he stepped through the Anderson gates.

"Can I suggest something for Dalton?"

"I was meaning more in the future, Blaine, once you've got to grips with the way the school is run," came the thundering response. "But if you've thought of something, do say so. We're always willing to listen."

"With your help, I'd like to draft an anti-bullying policy for the school. Expulsion for anyone found contravening it."

The Principal gasped. Why hadn't he thought of that? It would distinguish Dalton yet further above its competitors. He could even imagine the website. And it would solidify the school's role as a safe haven for gay teens, a group he truly did support with all his being. It would be perfect.

"I think that is a splendid idea, Blaine. We can bring in the school council to help."

A pause before he continued.

"And now an idea from me. Well, a question. When would you like to start?" Everyone in the room was smiling widely.

"Next week?"

"Fine. We'll see you then."

* * *

><p>And that was how shiny black shoes came to be leaving the Anderson compound on the Monday of the next week. There was a slight but noticeable limp on the left side, but Blaine walked straighter than he had in weeks.<p>

By the time the shoes returned, slightly scuffed, up the driveway seven hours later, Blaine had been placed in all the top sets (except PE), charmed his teachers and almost forgotten about the trial that was to take place the following week.

Oh, and he'd discovered that Wes Montgomery and David Thompson were actually quite sensible now; they sat on the Warbler Council together where Wes was the chairman, complete with an authoritative gavel that dated back to the late nineteenth century. Blaine's audition had less historical pedigree, lasting a total of six and a half seconds.

He found that he fitted in as well as he could have dreamt, a great comfort to someone who had felt so isolated for so long. And at Dalton, fitting in could coexist with being out, which made it all even better. The pretence was finally over.

* * *

><p>That day, the first few bricks from the destroyed wall that had previously been known as Blaine Anderson were laid once more. They had been battered in their fall, some knocked out of their pristine shape altogether, but the cement that held them together was coming back by the day.<p>

Except this time the wall was being constructed around a devastating core, where sadness and loss swam within a vast reservoir of aching guilt.


	9. Eleph ants

**Chapter 9: Eleph(ants)**

_Though your enemy is the size of an ant, regard him as an elephant. _

_- Danish Proverb_

Life went on with fragile normalcy as the glossy and perfect Blaine Anderson continued to navigate the opaque shadows of his former self. He was a week into his time as a Dalton freshman but had already been elected onto the school council, got four A+s, eased himself back into lane swimming and become good friends with Nick, Jeff, Wes and David (who were all high achieving freshmen in their own right). He'd also had the courage to audition for a solo at Invitationals, performing so well that he had been promised a solo as soon as he had gained more experience of singing in an a cappella choir. And he had Pavarotti to keep him company at every lonely moment of the day and night. Indeed, things were going so well he almost forgot that he was supposed to be feeling sad. Almost. Because all the joy that came from being able to fit in for the first time was tempered by a nagging feeling in his gut. Every conversation he had filled him with guilt, every happy moment was diluted with thoughts of court proceedings and witness testimonies, and every breath he took reminded him that life wasn't fair – Orrin should still be there at his side. If he had decided not to run, someone would have come to help, he was sure of it. He could have saved Orrin, but he had charged away from the situation. Why was everyone saying he was brave and courageous when he knew he was anything but?

Blaine's stomach twisted itself yet further as his gut subconsciously concluded that he was responsible for Orrin's death. He had betrayed the love and trust of his best friend, that was the bare bones of the matter: his love was like a sledgehammer to a champagne flute, smashing something beautiful and delicate into a thousand shards that stabbed him from the inside. He had crushed his friendship with Orrin, broken the Blake family and all but ruined his father's political campaign. And, in his heart of hearts, he knew that his parents' marriage was fraying at the edges; they never saw each other, let alone spoke, and Blaine was sure it was his fault. Why couldn't he have waited until college as he'd vowed all those years ago?

* * *

><p>Three days later and the gut-wrenching feeling had intensified. Blaine looked at the witness box across the courtroom where he was due to stand in around fifteen minutes. As his eyes scanned over the tables behind which Rupert, Norris and several other hockey players were sitting, he couldn't help but think that he was himself somewhat culpable. He abandoned the thought immediately, not wanting to weaken himself before one of the most important moments of his life. He had let Orrin down badly, but this was an opportunity to avenge his death. This was his chance to go a small way towards making up for what he had done.<p>

Blaine's thoughts were interrupted as he felt someone sit down next to him. Instinct told him it was his father. A hand was then carefully placed on Blaine's leg, presumably as a comfort, but he flinched away and the hand shrunk back into nothingness. A sob came from further down the row, and Blaine burst out of his bubble to see Blanche and Alban with tears brimming in their eyes. He didn't know how he was ever going to make it out of this courtroom.

The opening summons was completed and before long, Blaine was called to the stand.

"Could you confirm your name?"

"Blaine Michael Anderson."

The judge ran through a few more procedural basics, including the oath and confirmation of witness identity. Blaine began to relax, insomuch as such a thing was possible.

But then Antoine Nelson, the defence attorney, came to the bar, his piggy eyes darting around in his plump, reddened face like tadpoles in a bucket.

"So Mr. Anderson," Nelson began in an obsequious tone, "Can you confirm for us the events preceding my clients' _alleged_ transgression?"

"I was with my friend, Orr - "

"Just a friend?" Nelson was almost snarling. He was bringing up the homosexuality early, no doubt to make everyone aware of the likely strength of his trump card. Michael winced; this odious man reeked even more strongly of legal prowess than he did of body odour, which was saying a lot. He wasn't just the devil's advocate, he could have represented all of Pandaemonium and still had an appetite for more.

"Just a friend, Orrin. We were sitting on the sidewalk together. There was no one about."

Nelson's face reddened and his eyes became manic with excitement. Blaine could identify his law muscles twitching in anticipation: he'd often observed his father's doing the same in the past. Now, though, his father was tensing.

"And you…" Nelson's tongue rolled around in his mouth, as if he were tasting something that was repulsive and delicious in equal measure. "You kissed, in public, provoking my clients to behave as they did."

"We kissed, yes. But it was dark and we hadn't realised people were around. We just wanted our dance to be the same as everyone else's."

"But what you did was highly offensive. Disgusting, even. My clients cannot be completely culpable, it wouldn't be just."

The questioning continued in the same vein for another fifteen minutes, the judge appearing increasingly irascible as the exchange continued. He did not overrule Nelson at any point, however, despite Blaine becoming increasingly uncomfortable and the questions becoming ever-more probing and personal. All that was clear was that the defence attorney was so convincing in his depiction of Blaine as a predatory and deviant homosexual that Michael Anderson himself subconsciously questioned the validity of his son's story. The fact that he dismissed the idea milliseconds later did not alter the reality that he had entertained it. Nelson had an upper hand fifty thousand feet in the air.

But then, there was one more question.

One that reminded Michael that there was a ferocious pit of red-hot fire burning beneath the trim and glossy exterior of his teenage son. His teenage son who wanted the same things as everyone else did, who was certainly not a deviant or a pervert or anything less than the sweetest, smartest and most generous boy Michael had ever met. Even if he never said it.

A smarmy, self-congratulatory voice oozed around his thoughts like expanding foam, crushing them into submission.

"The final piece of evidence, Your Honour, from Folder 5C, comes from the post-mortem. It clearly points towards Orrin having underlying bone defects in his chest that undoubtedly exacerbated the internal bleeding. My clients could not possibly have known of this, so their light-hearted jostling had a far worse effect than anyone could have known."

Blaine's hands shook in rage as he struggled to remain silent. He felt as if every ounce of the grief he'd felt over the past month had returned in one, devastating blow. The judge didn't miss it.

"Does the witness have anything to say to refute this information?"

Michael Anderson was suddenly transported back to a day in the living room at home. Seven years ago, was it really that long ago? He remembered how the sun had streamed through the French doors, casting long shadows across the room through which red and blue elephants would later walk. He remembered a happy, cohesive family unit, one that had overcome the devastation of ovarian cancer (and the resultant sterility) at the same time as it had discovered the presence of a beautiful child in the womb. And that had been the day when Michael truly noticed how special and different his son was, that time for the right reasons. And it had been the day when he had realised how similar the two of them really were: uptight, bad at communicating, saying the wrong thing, everything. Why had he ever thought Blaine's sexuality would change anything? Something caused him to snap back into the room. What had happened? He never, ever lost concentration in court. But this time he had.

"… Those bullies have been harassing my friend and I since I was nine. They repeatedly threw both me and Orrin into lockers and trees, many with sharp edges clearly visible to the naked eye. They watched as we bled, they watched as we blacked out. They have threatened to kill me on numerous occasions. And now you are seriously suggesting that they didn't know what they were doing? You are seriously suggesting that? Don't you see? Those weaknesses in Orrin's body were _caused _by them, how could they not know what state he was in?" Blaine was shaking with unadulterated rage. Michael felt his chest bursting with pride; though he'd missed ninety percent of the testimony, his instinct told him that the case was over. In the right way. Honestly, Blaine should follow him into the law one day; he had the brains and courtroom presence to make it to the very top.

But for now, there was only one case to win.

More witnesses.

More testimonies.

Michael to the bar. Incisive questions. Nelson panicking, sweating around in his slacks in a mixture of anxiety and rage.

Jury deciding. Deliberating. Questioning themselves and the nature of justice. Wondering whether a new Angry Birds iPhone app has come out yet.

A decision.

Silence.

More silence.

A guilty conviction, as strong and resolute as the Blakes could have hoped for in one of the more conservative areas of the Midwest.

Blaine slumping on the floor, overwhelmed with grief and stress. And devastating, overwhelming, all-consuming sadness. This was it, the start of long-term readjustment; the funeral, the trial, everything had continued to revolve around Orrin for the past month. But now Orrin had been buried and justice had been served (so far as such a thing is possible), and Blaine was on his own: he would be living on under the shadow of the shattering loss that would be as close to his side and as present in his soul as Orrin had been when he was alive.

* * *

><p>But, as much as you believe, hope and swear it won't, life goes on. The invisible gaping hole in Blaine's side gradually began to repair itself as the quizzes piled up and the pressure of covering a term's worth of work in several short weeks began to take its toll. The raw numbness gradually retreated farther and farther back into his soul, his charm and easy wit seamlessly grafting the aching scars until he was the only one capable of detecting their existence.<p>

He made straight A+s, won a record number of prizes at prizegiving and had become the star of the swim team (though Coach Denali could have sworn there was something missing behind his eyes when she greeted him at the gala). His anti-bullying policy was in place and enforced, and he planned to go to New York first for Columbia and then for employment in a law firm. Everyone knew he was gay and no one cared, the binary opposite of the situation at Westerville East. He was the first freshman to get a solo in The Warblers. He had mastered the piano and was now learning guitar. Students were jealous of him, teachers were thrilled by him, everyone was charmed by him.

But he was disgusted with himself.

Because no matter what he did, no matter how high he climbed and how special he was, it was all because he'd run from a nasty situation. All over the world people receive medals for bravery and accolades for courage, yet he had been both the cowardly deserter and the only survivor. That shouldn't be how it works.

But he couldn't show weakness, there could be no chink in the armour; people had expectations of him now and they relied on him. He was a long way into this long distance race away from his problems and he was damn well going to carry on with it, despite the desperate pain it inevitably caused. He pushed the conflict inwards and inwards again until it sat at the heart of his being, so deep that he himself started to believe in Teflon Blaine and the gel and the perfectly-fitting suit. He even took to carrying the bespoke pocket watch his grandfather had bought him for his thirteenth birthday, a time before the rainbow shit had hit the proverbial fan and the world had been turned upside down.

* * *

><p>As summer approached, Teflon Blaine finally began to feel some small grains of happiness splash against the peripheries of his conscience. Things could be okay, he guessed, maybe. All he had to do was safeguard the guilt, cowardice and aching grief deep within his soul, handling it more carefully than one would nuclear waste. By this point, Blaine had <em>become <em>Dalton: practically every success involved him, and his movie star looks (flanked by Wes and David) beamed up at every boy who chose to glance over the glossy red and blue pages of the prospectus.

He began to conform in a way that is only achievable by those who truly understand what it is to be an outcast. He was startlingly, alarmingly, devastatingly _normal_, which is strange for someone who has arranged a funeral for their best friend and testified in a manslaughter case (and who is breathtakingly clever, hugely introverted and skilled in anything he turns a hand to, remaining likable despite and because of it all). He'd built an infallible wall of self-confidence on pillars of sand, his insecurities champing at the bit to escape the brittle confines of the gel and the blazer and the pocket watch.

But for now, at least, it was going well.

Very well.

Very, very well.

Extremely, disarmingly well.

Until the phone rang out in the Anderson household one evening at the end of the summer semester.

"Son?" A booming voice at the end of the phone spilled out of the speaker and into the room.

"Yes, father," Michael Jr. replied somewhat warily; he knew this tone to his father's voice meant nothing but trouble.

"I feel I should tell you before the newspapers do."

"What?" He was becoming more and more anxious. Michael Sr. was sounding so damn pleased with himself.

A chuckle slid out of the phone, thick with self-righteousness and condescension.

"I've pledged my support for the democratic candidate. Turns out Arthur Hoff was right, it _is_ easier to restrain wild donkeys than to raise a dead elephant."

* * *

><p><strong>AN Re: the epigraph, I can see from my wonderful graph of stats that I have some Danish readers. Hello! I got that proverb from wikiquote as I am running low on elephant-related proverbs (I know, right? Who'd have forseen _that_?) I hope I haven't misrepresented your beautiful country or language.  
><strong>

**For some reason I've signed up to all sorts of shit this year (as if I'm not busy enough), but I will prioritise this because I enjoy it and I love getting your feedback and hearing your thoughts. Please continue to review/ PM/ favourite/ alert/ print out my stories and feed them to your dog, I really appreciate it! See you sooooon and thanks for reading :) Byeeee.**


	10. My Name is Blaine

**Chapter 10: My Name is Blaine**

The Dalton clock tower chimed 2:30. Within seconds, the empty corridors were flooded with a blue and red-coloured bustle that wove through the rays of summer light streaming in through the large windows. A few seconds more and silence had been restored, most of the boys having made it to their _compulsory-but-we-will-pretend-they're-voluntary_ extra-curricular activities. The wooden panelling was practically creaking with relief.

But then footsteps rang out on the second floor. A very flustered Blaine Anderson came into view at the top of the stairs, handwritten manuscript paper spilling out from under his arm. He'd been doing the choral arrangements for several months now, gradually taking over from Alastair (a senior) who needed to focus on things like exams and college applications and hooking up with girls. A few months in and Blaine could see why the job had only ever been taken by older students: it was all horrendously time-consuming and stressful, and he was going the extra mile. Unlike Alastair, who had simply tweaked the music he'd found online, Blaine had read up on choral theory like the world depended on it and was now producing arrangements for the exclusive use of The Warblers. Wes had practically fainted the first time he'd heard what his colleague could do.

Blaine chased his shadow down the steps, pausing only to open his pocket watch to check the time. Damn, he was late for rehearsal _again_. This always happened on a Tuesday, always. It wasn't his fault that Dr. Greene the geography teacher felt the constant need to take her most gifted student aside and ply him with extra information on hotspots and fault lines and natural hazards as if she was telling him he'd won the lottery. It _certainly _wasn't his fault she'd set him up on a mandatory date with the National Geography Olympiad, for which he'd have to write a 10,000 word paper entitled, 'Applying Malthusian Theory to Population Change in the Sahel'. Scintillating, especially as it'd be eating the tiny remainder of his free time that had existed between arranging music and singing for The Warblers, swim training and the rigorous Dalton homework schedule. The only things keeping Blaine Anderson awake right now were coffee and adrenaline, and each of those was proving less and less effective with every day that passed.

But Blaine knew that the gavel wouldn't care about any of that. It was in a particularly punitive mood at the moment, especially with the approach of the Ohio Choral Championships that were now just three days away. Three days, and the boys _still _hadn't mastered Blaine's complicated arrangements of Rachmaninov's _Ave Maria _or Verdi's _Requiem_. And, on top of all that, they still needed to prepare for their debut on the show choir circuit. Blaine was filling every one of his three spare seconds listening to the delicious stylings of the Beelzebubs and Whiffenpoofs, all the while trying to refrain from adding a jaunty beatbox part to _Ave Maria_.

After a brisk two minute walk, the double doors of the choir room came into view. Blaine hurried down the four familiar steps and pushed opened them open, words of profuse apology on the tip of his tongue as he prepared to get a word in around Wes' inevitable diatribe against lateness. But the room was still, every one of the brown sofas unoccupied. Blaine suddenly thought back to the note in the common room:

THE DALTON ACADEMY WARBLERS WILL BE REHEARSING IN THE CHAPEL TODAY AT 2:35PM. PLEASE REMEMBER TO SHOW UP

(ESPECIALLY YOU, BLAINE MICHAEL ANDERSON).

Well, shit. The chapel was on the other side of the quadrangle. He should definitely ask Dr. Greene how FEMA would respond to the devastation left in the wake of Wes Montgomery, the angriest and most ferocious cyclone the world had ever seen, especially as she and her stupid penchant for extra assessment were entirely responsible for the disaster that would inevitably occur.

* * *

><p>Blaine ran around the manicured lawn of the Dalton Quad, his journey made twice as long because no student was allowed to walk on the grass. As he approached the chapel, the air filled with the intermingled sounds of an organ and a powerful male chorus. He finally made it, his hair curling and his body sweaty, just as the <em>Dies Irae <em>of the Verdi was reaching its thrilling climax. Maybe it'd be loud enough for him to slip in unnoticed. He unhooked the metal latch and opened the heavy oak door no further than necessary, smiling to himself when it didn't creak.

But when things seem too good to be true, they probably are. The door slammed on closure, sending thunder clap rippling around the entire chapel. He was about as subtle as an elephant riding a mobility scooter across a field of bubblewrap.

The music stopped in a bathetic anticlimax. The wrath of Wes Montgomery began.

A barrage of words bombarded Blaine from across the chapel, the most important of them punctuated with a clap of wood-on-wood as the raging Wes pummelled the gavel onto a pew. Titters from the tenors mingled with low rumbles from the basses, creating a united choral laugh that reverberated off the walls of the Academy Chapel to ensnare Blaine in a tangled web of sound. Wes grew redder and redder and the giggling got louder and louder, his facial muscles rippling with rage. These outbursts were infamous throughout Dalton for a reason: no one had ever seen one without falling into helpless fits of laughter.

But Blaine didn't see; his vision had blacked out and he could hear nothing beyond the sound of a gavel and a rumbling multi-layered laugh he hadn't heard since last November. His legs grew weak, only capable of supporting his weight as far as the nearest pew. As he sat bent double with his head between his knees, fat tears fell from his eyes onto the black and white chequered marble of the chapel floor. A silence, weightier than the shouting and laughter combined, descended on the room as the Warblers and their organist watched Blaine Anderson, _THE_ Blaine Anderson, fall apart before their very eyes.

A dumbstruck Wes and a shell-shocked David walked down the aisle towards their friend while the other Warblers filed out of the fire exit at the rear of the chapel. Blaine was still slumped in his seat, rocking back and forth and repeating a muffled "I'm sorry I'm sorry" to no one in particular. He flinched as David placed a firm hand on his shoulder, but eased up as soon as he recognised the boy's smooth voice.

"Dude, it's fine. Wes didn't mean to upset you, he honestly didn't."

"I truly apologise," Wes added, "I'm sorry I let my temper get the better of me."

David wrapped his arms further around Blaine's shoulders, rubbing them in a way he hoped would calm his friend down. The boy flinched under him but let him stay.

After a few moments, Blaine lifted his tear-stained face to look at his two friends. He gasped when he noticed that the other Warblers had gone.

"Where are they?" he choked out, frantically searching the room for any hints of blue or red. Panic set in when he realised there were none to be seen. "We're going to lose in Cincinnati if we don't have this rehearsal. We suck at Rachmaninov. It'll be my fault if we lose because I interrupted this rehearsal and you guys need my altered arrangements that I haven't finished yet because I've been really busy and everything and the boys are going to hate -"

"Shut up, Blaine."

Blaine's breath hitched in his mouth at David's interruption.

"It definitely won't be your fault when we lose."

"David," Wes hissed, "We won't lose."

Blaine laughed more fully than he had since November, causing Wes and David released a simultaneous sigh of relief. A few beats of silence passed before Wes spoke once again, his face lighting up with effervescent glee.

"What a stroke of luck, it looks like we'll be able to rehearse the Verdi and Rachmaninov after all."

Blaine chuckled at his friend's enthusiasm, almost entirely diffusing the last dregs of awkwardness that lingered between them.

* * *

><p>In the end, Blaine placed third in the National Geography Olympiad. He received a congratulatory letter from a professor at Harvard as well as an enormous wooden globe (which he palmed off on a delighted Dr. Greene at the first possible opportunity). The next week, he came a close second in the Men's Individual Medley at the Midwest Swim Championships, an expected but slightly disappointing outcome. Coach Denali was sure he'd win next season.<p>

But the thing that made Blaine happiest of all had come just three days after he had collapsed from emotional exhaustion, making all those other achievements a little less remarkable. Against all the odds, The Warblers of Dalton Academy had come through at the last minute to win in Cincinnati, the judges citing the interesting (and entirely successful) transposition of a full choir onto a male changed-voice vocal ensemble as justification for their first place trophy. Wes had been particularly amused to observe the surprise on the other choral directors' faces when the Dalton choirmaster accepted the prize. They were practically queuing up to offer the good-looking boy with the slicked back their congratulations at the after party, each of them delighted when he modestly shook their hands saying "My name is Blaine", just in case they didn't know. It was unnecessary: everyone in the room now knew Blaine Anderson's name. Blaine Anderson was that guy who had put Verdi onto a male voice choir and an orchestra onto an organ without losing any of the piece's original magnificence. The boy was practically a miracle worker.

Gradually, the spring in Blaine's step began to return as his perpetual underlying sadness covered itself in so much gloss and glint even he hardly noticed it any more. Even the Warblers began to forget about Blaine's meltdown, the confidence and finesse filling each and every chink that had appeared in the armour on that day in the chapel. The defence mechanism truly had returned in spades, but this time it was stronger and more impenetrable than ever. As the last bell sounded on the last day of the academic year, he felt hope and excitement tug at his heart for the first time in half a year.

Blaine Anderson was back.

* * *

><p>Blaine Anderson was back.<p>

It was the first day of summer. Blaine woke up early to the sun streaming through the windows, luxuriating in the comfort of his bed knowing he wouldn't have to be up for a few more hours. He reached over to his nightstand to pick up the first of his fun summer reads, _Silas Marner_: it was so good to have a free reign outside the rather predictable choices of AP Literature.

But then.

"I bought a car to fix up. Just you and me, we're going to spend the summer on it. Come see it in the garage."

Deep breaths.

Blaine Anderson is back.

Blaine Anderson is back.

My name is Blaine.

Blaine Anderson is back.

Blaine Anderson is calm, cool, collected and successful, equipped with magnificent skills in logic and deduction.

Blaine Anderson knows that Michael Anderson knows that Blaine Anderson is supremely disinterested in cars.

It is public knowledge that Blaine Anderson is gay.

Fixing cars is perceived as a very masculine exercise.

There is an election coming up.

Blaine Ander -

"Oh, and a photographer is coming today. I'm terribly sorry but I couldn't book him at any other time. He'll probably want to take a few shots of us around the car."

Blaine shook his head as tears threatened to fall.

"Why can't you just accept me?"

"I do accept you."

Blaine snorted. His father was always like this, always. Two steps forward, two hundred steps back.

"Just do this, Blaine, please. It's the only way I can win your grandfather back."

"Fine."

And as the reporter's camera made the room flash white with every cheesy pose they struck, Blaine tried to decide whether he or his father was the bigger sell-out. A final shot with Michael's hand on his shoulder while he gripped a spanner told him all he needed to know. He felt sick.

Deciding that it would be a good idea to actually repair the '69 Chevy he had paid a mechanic to disassemble, Michael spent a few (unphotographed) moments consulting the pristine copy of _Repairing Autos for Dummies_ that sat on the new workbench. The pair of them spent thirty minutes dipping their hands in and out of the bonnet, not really making any progress at all. The camera flashed intermittently throughout it all.

"Pass me the carburetor, I need the carburetor."

Blaine cast his eyes over the parts, desperately trying to find one that looked like it might be called a carburetor.

"It's the one in the middle."

Blaine picked up the clunky metal object and handed it to his father. The camera flashed yet again.

This was ridiculous and he'd had enough. Why should he put up with this shit?

He began to yell, his powerful voice ringing around the garage. Why did his dad always have to ruin everything?

"Fuck you. I'm a Democrat, anyway. Bet that comes as a massive surprise. The Republicans are full of shit, and you're a fucking sell-out."

He stormed out into the house, leaving an awkward photographer and dumbstruck father in his wake.

And that, as they say, was that.

* * *

><p>The summer passed uneventfully after that. Holidays in The Hamptons, Cape Cod and Paris were interspersed with hours of piano, guitar and composition, arguments with his father over politics and barbeque etiquette, one coffee with Jeremiah (who was <em>totally <em>into him), fishing, golf, nerf fights and pool parties with The Warblers, sulking at the back of his father's campaign rallies, and reading stacks and stacks of books. And then more books. And then more books.

And feeling lonely.

And then, after the end of forever, it was July 31st . It was a time of uniform shopping, Blaine's mother buying a blazer in the same size as before to replace the worn one of the previous year. Still not growing, then. A later trip to the mall saw him buying a new Topman satchel (straight from the pages of GQ), large enough for all his musical manuscripts to be carried without getting crumpled. Decent.

And then a few more weeks passed and he was buying coffee the morning before school with extra foam as a treat.

And then he was walking through those familiar gates for the start of his sophomore year, pages and pages of manuscripts weighing down his satchel.

Hours and days turned into weeks and two months, every second of them filled with constant battles to stay awake. He'd covered this material months ago. Lessons were spent with hours of arranging music, agonising over bass parts and beatbox rhythms and fifteen-part harmonies while his classmates struggled to solve the quadratics and interpret _Don Juan_. He was so bored it hurt.

And then, one Tuesday, Dr. Greene approached him in the corridor. It was too late for him to hide in a locker, a method that usually proved 100% effective. For the first time in a long time, he turned around and faced his fate.

"Blaine, I haven't seen you in ages!" She was practically effervescing out of her skin, which could be nothing but a bad sign. Blaine took a deep breath to calm himself before he responded.

"I know, Dr. Greene, it's all very unfortunate," he eventually managed, summoning as much sincerity as his highly-fatigued brain could manage.

"Anyway, I received a note from Harvard inviting you to enter another essay competition. It was addressed _especially _to you, what an honour! Principal Baines is very keen for you to participate, and it'd be great for your college applications considering you want to major in Geography and all. It'll be about - "

It needed to stop; he was tired and in a pretty much constant daze from the lethal combination of brain-mushifying lessons and stressful extra-curriculars.

"I want to be a lawyer or a musician, I'm still deciding. I _certainly _don't want to study Geography." Blaine felt a tinge of guilt when her face fell, her perpetual smile wiping itself from her face in an instant. She looked completely different without her trademark beam.

He decided to try to soften the blow; she really was a nice woman with his best interests at heart, she didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of the Anderson rage. He took a deep, calming breath before speaking.

"Look Dr. Greene, I'll have a think about it. But I'm afraid that for now I really _really _must get to Warblers; our first sectionals competition is coming up and we're trying a new song in an open rehearsal. No pressure." He flashed her a small smile.

The Professor found herself grinning widely despite it all; Blaine was so charming and his arrangements were famous throughout the school. He was a truly talented kid, that was for sure, he was allowed to have interests elsewhere.

"Okay, see you around. If you change your mind, you ca-"

She quickly realised she was speaking to thin air; Blaine was already half way down the corridor, dissolving into a river of red and blue that flowed down the stairs towards the Choir Room in an unbroken stream. He flipped open his pocket watch. It was a Tuesday, of _course _he was running late.

But then there was an obstacle. An obstacle that was _definitely _not Dr. Greene-shaped. No, this obstacle was a powerhouse of tartan and perfect hair and glinting eyes. Oh, those eyes.

"Excuse me, hi, can I ask you a question? I'm new here."

Blaine's mouth dropped and his heart pounded in a way that it hadn't since... Well, since _before_.

Wow.

His glossy conversation autopilot kicked in before he had the gumption to override it.

Direct eye contact. Confident handshake. Disarming smile.

"My name is Blaine."

* * *

><p><strong>AN Hey everyone! Sorry if there if there are any embarrassing mistakes in this chapter - I'm so tired I can barely stay awake, a situation that is not being helped by my friends who are playing some loveydovey movie in the next room at a volume that can only be described as ear-splitting. They may regret being my friends tomorrow morning when my lack of sleep transforms me into a horrific swamp creature. Anyway, enough about my beauty secrets... Hope to see you back soon and thanks so much for reading. Bye for now :)  
><strong>


	11. In Sunshine Or In Shadow

**Chapter 11: In Sunshine Or In Shadow **

_'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow.'_

_-Danny Boy_

Blaine babbled on with the usual spiel about The Warblers' illustrious history, but all he was really focused on were those eyes. _Those_ eyes. Blue or green or something in between, but certainly fascinating, entrancing and completely unique.

"Come on, I know a shortcut."

Before he could stop himself, he was reaching out to grab hold of Kurt's hand once more. This time, though, he didn't let go. There was something about the boy that made his heart ache, something that managed to be both painfully familiar and completely unidentifiable all at the same time. It was a certain shiftiness, a wariness in crowds, a flinch that came before fingers got used to fingers and palms got used to palms.

Was Kurt gay? All the behaviours and mannerisms seemed to point to it, and that was before he'd factored in the rather 'out there' take on the Dalton uniform. But, as he remembered from several fruitless crushes, camp didn't always mean gay. Why was Kurt even at Dalton, anyway? That uniform wasn't convincing anyone.

Blaine's thoughts were interrupted as the pair entered the Senior Commons. People were darting around attempting to rearrange the furniture before the performance began. Everyone knew that Wes waited for no one (lead singer included), and it was thirty seconds to showtime.

"Now, if you'll excuse me."

Yuck. Blaine cringed inwardly; that was the kind of thing his _father _would say.

_Da da da da da da da, da da da da da da._

Cue. Go.

_Before you met me, I was…_

The rest of the performance went without a hitch, a somewhat surprising outcome given that Blaine had focused 80% of his concentration on the study of Kurt's mysterious expression. Superficially he gave nothing away, his enthusiastic clapping mirroring that of every other boy in the room.

His eyes, however, seemed to reveal something entirely different.

Maybe he was –

Blaine's thoughts were once again put on hold by a very excitable Wes, who slammed Blaine hard on the back before animatedly jabbering into his face. Apparently he'd lost all concept of personal space.

"That arrangement was incredible, Blaine," he gushed, "It's remarkable how you've been able to switch sensibility from choral to pop so easily. You da best, man. Any notes for improvement?"

"Not really, it sounded fine to me," came the non-committal reply. His thoughts were elsewhere.

"Blaine, you seem terribly distant today. Are you okay?" Wes' voice dropped and he extended his hand to Blaine's shoulder. "I know it's November now, it's gotta be hard on you. One year on and all that."

Most people had filed out of the room, leaving just the two of them. Well, the two of them and a very, _very _silent Kurt, who was sat out of earshot on the other side of the room. Oh, and Jack, who was plugged into his iPod as he worked at the adjacent table.

Blaine shook his head. "No Wes, it's not that. Well, it is a bit."

Wes said nothing. It was always best to give Blaine time.

"I'm worried about him," he finally whispered, nodding his head in Kurt's direction. Wes, misinterpreting the hushed voice, went ballistic.

"A SPY. OH MY GOD WE HAVE A SPY. I CAN'T BELIEVE THAT _BLAINE _OF ALL PEOPLE WAS THE ONE TO SPOT HIM. CODE RED, I REPEAT, CODE RED."

A flash of inspiration passed across the councilman's face as he seemed to remember something. In a trice he had whipped a walkie-talkie from his blazer pocket, its brick-like form reminiscent of something from the original series of Doctor Who. After punching a few buttons, he made it through to the Dalton Porters' Lodge.

"Bob, this is Mr. Wesley Montgomery, we have a situation in the Senior Commons. Can you run a background security che-"

"This isn't the CIA, Wes," Blaine sighed, knocking the walkie-talkie out of the hand of his disappointed friend. Where had he even got that piece of antiquity from, anyway? The gavel was tragic enough…

And that's when Blaine's eyes fell back onto Kurt. The real Kurt. The shaking Kurt, the Kurt that trembled beneath that multi-label coat of armour. He felt as if he'd been punched in the guts, and couldn't help but gravitate across the room towards the mysterious boy.

"You're right, you know." It was barely more than a whisper, but Kurt continued nonetheless. "I'm in the New Directions, from McKinley High in Lima."

"I think you'd better come with us," Blaine said as calmly as he could manage, mentally slapping himself for sounding like some sort of evil mastermind.

"Can I change my outfit first? I don't want this one to get damaged, these pants are McQueen and they don't sell them any more. I've got spare clothes in the car."

Blaine put on his warmest, most comforting smile and rested his hand on Kurt's shoulder. Another flinch.

"Of course you can. See you in the Dining Room in ten?"

"Sure."

* * *

><p>Blaine had been pretty certain Kurt would drive off, so he waited by the bay window to keep a constant vigil of Dalton's driveway. Not creepy, right? He breathed a deep sigh of relief as soon as he saw Kurt heading back towards the main doors, an action that was his cue to run to the Dining Room before the boy figured out that he'd been watched.<p>

Before long, Blaine, Kurt, Wes and David were sat around one of the large tables used for group study when mealtimes weren't in session. David had even whipped up some of his special lattes using the student coffee machine.

"It's very civilised for you to invite me for coffee before you beat me up for spying."

Kurt's voice was louder now, still vulnerable but much more assured. It was a very interesting voice, soft but very powerful. Blaine was working _really_ hard not to ask him about his vocal range.

Wes jumped into the conversation as soon as he sensed his friend's thoughts were elsewhere.

"We are _not_ going to beat you up."

Then David, tactless as ever, cut in. "You were such a terrible spy, we thought it was sort of, _endearing_."

Endearing? Yes. Tragic, like Wes' CIA action moment? No.

Blaine managed to gather enough wits to form coherent speech.

"Which made _me_ think that spying on us wasn't really the reason you came." It was a statement, not a question.

A short, companionable silence.

"Can I ask you guys a question?"

Here it was.

"Are- Are you guys all gay?"

Yep, _that _question. That question that came part and parcel with the blazer and the shiny dress shoes and the slicked back hair. The three boys couldn't help but laugh.

"Err no, I mean I am, but these two have girlfriends." Well, this was odd. Blaine hadn't ever come out at school before, everyone at Dalton just _knew_. He was out, he was proud, it was fine. But it was weird telling someone who hadn't guessed or known beforehand.

"This is not a gay school, we just have a zero-tolerance harassment policy."

_Thanks to Blaine._

"Everybody gets treated the same, no matter what they are. It's pretty simple."

Another silence, this time a little more unsettling and awkward. Blaine could see the tears swimming around in Kurt's eyes, ready to fall at any moment.

There were a few more beats silence before Blaine dropped the hint.

"Would you guys excuse us?"

Wes and David understood instantly, and Jack on the table behind also sensed it was time to leave. The room was finally empty, leaving Kurt and Blaine. Or Blaine and Kurt.

"I'm the only person out of the closet at my school."

So it was true. Obviously. Blaine's heart pumped at double pace as Kurt recounted a tale similar to his own. The feeling of being different: that was at Saint Kenny's when he was first discovering his sexuality. The Neanderthal: yep, that happened too, except there was a whole caveful back at Westerville East. At least they were locked up in juvie, which was more than could be said for the arsewipe giving Kurt grief. The terror and sadness that stretched across Kurt's unguarded face was all too familiar.

A silence. Oh, he was expected to talk.

"I got taunted at my old school and it really – it really pissed me off." It was the stock admission, the thing he said to those who hadn't realised that he was _that boy_ who'd been beaten up for being gay. _That boy _who'd been saved by the sacrifice made by his best friend.

_That _boy who'd run away.

"You can refuse to be the victim. Prejudice is just ignorance, Kurt, and you have a chance right now to teach him. I ran Kurt, I didn't stand up. I let bullies chase me away. And it is something I really, really regret."

And it still hurt, rotting away at the core of him, three-hundred-and-fifty-something days on. Especially now, when he could see _himself_ right in front of him, a snapshot of the past superimposed on another's face. It hurt.

"But won't I just get beaten up?" Kurt's voice had gone small again.

"I doubt it, most bullies are all talk. But I have to say, Kurt, if he so much as lays a finger on you, call me and I'll come to Lima. I promise. Give me your phone and I'll type in my number. You don't have to tell me yours if you don't want to."

"No, it's fine, you can have it Blaine, it'll be great to have someone to talk to who really _understands_."

A pause. He wanted that too, so desperately. He couldn't believe Kurt had just dropped into his life so suddenly and given him something he hadn't even realised he was missing- it was just so much to get his head around. Silence endured for a few more moments.

Unfortunately, Kurt seemed to equate silence with rejection. It was his turn to start wittering.

"You don't want that? I'm so sorry, I don't want to seem so full-on but this is the first time I've met another openly gay guy except for Rachel Berry's dads but they don't count because I only met them briefly and they're old and -"

Blaine wanted to smack himself round the face for making Kurt feel this way.

"Hush, of course we can talk. I'll add you on Skype and Facebook, too, it'll be great."

Kurt stared deep into his eyes, honesty tumbling out of his every pore.

"Thank you, Blaine."

"You're welcome. Now, tell me about that Glee club of yours. I won't use it against you, I promise. I already spent most of my precious summer vacation on the arrangements for potential songs for Sectionals, I'm really not in the mood for doing any last minute adjustments."

Kurt's eyebrows shot up. Whoops.

"_You_ arranged Teenage Dream?"

"I did." There was no hiding it now. Stupid Blaine.

Kurt exhaled breathily.

"Wow, you're the lead _and _the arranger? You're very talented." Phew, at least he hadn't said 'arrogant'.

"Nah, I just read up on a lot of _really _boring musical theory. I don't think I've quite got the hang of popular music yet, I just like Katy Perry and this one seemed to work for us. This is actually our first year on the show choir circuit so I'm not expecting much. Our main preference for choral music, you know, like chamber choir stuff. That's how The Warblers started: we were and are the choir of the Academy Chapel."

"How is that even possible? Aren't all the voices like, really low?"

"Well yes, that's a weakness. I've managed to arrange round it so far, but we're going to be running into problems when if we manage to hit the World Choir Games next September. It's in Beijing, those Chinese choirs work their asses off. And they'll be on home turf. And they have choristers to sing the high bits."

Whoops again. Kurt's eyes were practically bursting out of his head.

"We, on the other hand, have no natural countertenors. We have four guys, all very talented and all seniors, who are baritones with developed falsetti. They'll be gone by the competition, and they couldn't reach the notes I need even if they were there. I'm talking, like, F5."

Blaine realised he was rambling. Kurt probably didn't know (or care) about any of his stupid problems; he had much greater concerns of his own.

A whisper. "I can hit F5."

It was Blaine's turn to stare.

"And I can go higher than that, if I work myself up to it."

Blaine's jaw hit the floor.

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah, I've always liked singing girls' songs and I think I just kind of kept hold of the high register. I think it's because I sang Wicked constantly while my voice was changing. I mean, I see it as a strength. How many other guys do you know who could do 'Defying Gravity' at original pitch?"

Blaine chuckled.

"You're right. I know none."

"I'm often right, Blaine..."

"Anderson."

"Yes, Blaine Anderson, I'm often right." Ah, so this was _real_ Kurt. Kurt was awesome, and, by the sounds of things, he had an incredible voice.

"I want to hear you. You might be on Broadway one day, I'll be able to say that I heard you before you were famous."

"Maybe."

"Ok, I'll take that as a yes and hold you to it."

Kurt grinned.

"How about I tell you a secret?"

The taller boy looked at him expectantly.

"Have you ever heard of The King's Singers? They're British, and their founding members were chapel singers too, at King's College Cambridge. They've been going for, like, forty years or something, and they keep the sound the same by replacing each person that leaves with someone of the same voice type. There are always six of them, and it makes for an incredible and unique balance: two countertenors, a tenor, two baritones and a bass. They're amazing, you _need _to hear their versions of Greensleeves and Danny Boy. I want to do the same here at Dalton, and maybe even make it the competitive branch of the choir because we are _screwed _for Beijing if we go as we are." He paused, trying to abate the unstoppable stream of words. "Anyway, choral arrangement is what I'd like to see myself doing in my future here, and maybe even as a career if I'm good enough. I'm going to call the sextet The Dalton Doubtfires, you know, after Mrs Doubtfire. Man, I love Robin Williams."

Blaine pleaded with himself to stop rambling, but this always happened when he was trying not to make a fool of himself. Just as he was scolding himself, he noticed that Kurt was shaking like before. _Harder_ than before, even. This time, though, it was through uproarious laughter. He was barely able to stand.

"Honestly Blaine, that is _the worst name _I have ever heard, and that's coming from someone whose choir is named The New Directions. Can you hear how that sounds?" Blaine thought about it and chuckled. "And Oral Intensity, I mean… Seriously, that's their name. But _The Dalton Doubtfires_, that trumps the lot."

They were so easy with each other already. It was like that time at the ice cream parlour on Main Street, that time when Orr-

No. Nothing could ever be like that.

A few more moments of idle chit chat passed before Kurt cleared his throat, looked into Blaine's eyes and placed a soft hand on his shoulder.

"I'd better head back to Lima, it's getting late. It was so lovely to meet you."

"Likewise, Kurt., you're amazing." Blaine replied, instinctively flipping open his pocket watch as he spoke. "Crap, it's half six already! Give your mom and dad a call before they start to worry about you."

A grimace crossed Kurt's face. It had been nothing but a fleeting shadow that had come and gone in a millisecond, but Blaine had spotted it. A not dissimilar one had crossed his face just seconds before.

They were both hurting, that much was clear.

"Well, I'll see you soon."

"Yeah."

A hug, tentative but companionable.

"See you then."

"Goodbye, Kurt."

Blaine waved him off from Dalton's front door before calling his mom to get her to pick him up. Damn not having a licence.

And he was kind of missing Kurt already.

* * *

><p><strong>AN Well hello everyone! Once again, sincerest apologies for the time it's taken me to update. I had an essay and a concert (a solo, no less) to contend with on top my four courses-worth of fascinating reading, so I've basically been in zombie mode for the past week or so. ARGH.**

**A few things to address. First off, the title of this chapter. Obviously, it's from Danny Boy, the folk song done _to death _by choirs all over the world. EVEN SO, please listen to the King's Singers – it's how I imagine Blaine's choral arrangements to sound (except KS have fewer voices), and the tone etc. will be important in later chapters. Please do search YouTube for these, you won't regret it (just put the 'watch' bit in after the forward slash): **

**1) King's Singers Greensleeves (the Royal Albert Hall BBC Proms version) – (watch?v=twix9KfES9Y)**

**2) King's Singers Danny Boy (watch?v=SfGTq71VXfo)**

**They're incredible, right? Especially their first countertenor, David Hurley, who bears more than a passing resemblance to the Francis the Ladybird (Ladybug?) from _A Bug's Life_. And the bass singer looks UNCANNILY like Mr Bean, adding some comedy to the beautiful, beautiful a capella music. Seriously, it makes me melt.**

**AND THE NEW GLEE EPISODE. I LOVED IT. I know other people have been a little ambivalent towards it, but Ali Adler did SUCH a good job. She's clearly done her homework- she even worked in Mr Schue's muffler, I bless her cow. With those powers of observation, she could _perhaps_ be a GREAT fanfiction writer one day… And Burt really came into his own, I nearly cried during that scene in Breadstix. So yeah, I loved it. **

**And six days. Just sayin'. That promo looked incredible, I just hope Kurt and Blaine end up happy and don't regret a single thing.**

**OH, and as fluttershy234 reminded me- DARREN CRISS DRESSED UP AS BABAR FOR HALLOWEEN FOR A GLEE PARTY. BABAR. DARREN CRISS. GLEE PARTY. IT'S LIKE MY AVATAR BECAME REAL LIFE.  
><strong>

**Aaaanyway, wow, long A/N. See you soon for the next update. I have a bit of time off now because of the way my supervisions have worked out, so more nice creative-y writing for meeee. Thanks so much for reading. Reviews are always greatly appreciated, but I won't descend to begging. **

**PLEASE REVIEW.**

**Whoops. Just did.**

**Bye for now :)**


	12. Soon

**Chapter 12: Soon**

Soon. An adverb. It's a funny word, really, and a hugely contextual one. It is dependent on an understanding of how time past relates to time future; it requires a perception of how long the last gap was as well as an understanding of how that could relate to the predicted duration of the coming hiatus. That's how you figure out if something will happen soon, very soon, or far into the future, isn't it? It's half empirical, half speculative. Right?

So, you can say that crude oil supplies will run out soon. By soon, we mean within a generation or two, because in comparison to the millions of years crude oil has been present on the planet, we have relatively few remaining. It would, on the other hand, be odd for a toddler to announce, "I am soon to be ninety", because, relatively-speaking, that is a whole lifetime away. Even if we knew for sure that oil would run out on the toddler's ninetieth birthday (i.e. that the time that remaining in which the toddler is not ninety is exactly equal to the time that crude oil will remain on Earth), only one event is marked as 'soon' to us here in the present day. That's correct, surely.

And as Blaine delved deeper and deeper into the exact nature of 'soonness', he became more and more certain that 'soon' rarely qualifies as _two days later _if you have only met a person once. After all, he had met Kurt on Tuesday. It was now Thursday. He'd known him for two days, an infinitesimally small fraction of the sixteen years he'd spent on Planet Earth. So why, then, was he sat in the back of a gleaming chauffeur-driven Maybach? Why was he skipping school _and_ Warbler practice, but still wearing his Warbler jacket? And why was he hurtling down Route 33, headed straight for Lima?

It was actually all very simple.

Kurt had called.

* * *

><p>It had all been very unexpected.<p>

Tuesday had brought nothing, not even a text. Even busy-as-ever Karen had noticed that he'd been glued to his Blackberry, his eyes fixed on the screen willing it to burst into life.

By Wednesday morning, he'd practically gone insane. So he made the move.

_Hey Kurt, hope everything's going well at McKinley. Just checking you're okay - - - Blaine._

Kiss?

Kiss hug?

Kiss hug kiss?

Blaine settled on a smiley face.

_:)_

And within twenty seconds he had a reply.

_Hi Blaine! I'm so glad you texted. I was so scared I'd look pushy or weird or something if I texted, I don't know. Yeah, everything's going okay, if okay means listening to a self-absorbed unicorn sweater-wearing goblin proposing a vote on which musical we'd like to see her star in first. How about you? K_

Blaine wasn't convinced. What he was seeing here was deflection. Kurt was working at a high level, almost professional, but he could see right through it. It is said that only a master can truly detect the genius in another master's work, and Blaine could see every damned brushstroke.

_Are you sure you're okay? - - - Blaine_

_Well, same old same old, as they say._

Same old meant bullying, hurt and unhappiness. Unfortunately.

What should he say?

Something triggered a memory from way back. It was a warm embrace, no sight, just touch, which was odd as Blaine had a very visual memory. He thought harder. It was a hug that had made everything better after he'd poured out his innermost thoughts and doubts and worries in a single deluge of tears. A firm embrace that made him realise that the world wasn't going to fall apart, no matter how much it felt as if it would.

He was back in his bedroom.

Back when he was thirteen.

Back when he'd just come out.

He didn't cry; his emotional filter was too good for that by now. He just needed to replicate that embrace somehow. He needed something that would make Kurt feel as safe and secure as he had with Orr-. Anyway, how on earth would he ever succeed in turning that life-giving hug into a text message?

He trawled through his vocabulary, searching for a word that would sum up everything he needed to say. He subconsciously sped through every book, poem and Hallmark card he could remember, willing himself to come up with something that wasn't totally pathetic.

A word finally came to him, surging out of the maelstrom of words and phrases and general nonsense that thrashed around in his brain.

Maybe it was cheesy.

Maybe it would be weird.

He sent it anyway.

_COURAGE - - - Blaine_

He didn't receive a response.

* * *

><p>The school day had ended and, thanks to Wes' date with his latest Crawford booty call, there was no Warblers rehearsal. Karen had brought the now professionally-repaired '69 Chevy for Blaine to drive back from Dalton, hoping he'd be able to rack up the last of his fifty practice hours before he took his test the next week.<p>

He was clearly distracted.

"For goodness sake, Blaine, watch where you're going."

"Not my fault we live in a neighbourhood where people's cars are wider than the roads," came the huffy response, reminding Karen for the umpteenth time that Blaine was a _teenager_.

"Just concentrate, please."

"I am! Stop being moody."

Finally, they arrived at those huge gates. Blaine touched the electronic key to the scanner, the ironwork slipping back to instantly reveal those familiar gardens.

"Now you can stop the car."

Blaine rolled his eyes. She was just so _annoying_, why did she have to state the obvious all. the. time? He unfastened his seatbelt and prepared to open the door, desperate to check his phone for anything from Kurt. He was so worried the boy had been offended by what he'd said. Maybe he'd been too forward, maybe he -

"Stay where you are, please."

The thoughts in his head froze like Cornish pixies; that tone held special, immobilising powers over him, and Karen knew it.

"I'm not happy with your manner, Blaine. I know you're under a lot of stress with schoolwork and The Warblers and everything, but you've been very brusque with me today and I don't want it to continue."

"I'm sorry." It was half-hearted at best.

"What is with you, Blaine? I'm not happy about being spoken to like this. I have been under a huge amount of stress myself, what with your father being away for so long and the election being _two days away_. I don't know what to do, he's always away and he's just left me here on my own to run his campaign from here and he never rings and he's always so damn _busy _and-"

She seemed to realise that she was pouring her heart out to her _sixteen year old son_. He shouldn't have to put up with this.

Before long, though, she was wrapped in a warm and firm embrace. It was unfamiliar; he never hugged her voluntarily any more.

He rubbed his hands across her back, whispering soothing words in her ear.

Well, they were soothing until she actually listened to what he was saying.

…

"Fuck him, he's a career-obsessed hypocritical ass."

…

"Fucking _cretin_."

…

"... Anti-gay agenda, which is ironic because he's so bent politically he's basically screwing himself."

Karen coughed at her son's brashness and the hug ended. She tried to get a word in, but he continued to rant.

"This car makes me so fucking angry just sitting in it. He didn't even bother trying to finish repairing it with me, all he wanted were those fucking pictures to plaster all over his fucking campaign posters. I bet all the asinine lowlifes who live in this state will lap it up, he'll be a senator in no time."

She finally interrupted him as he took a breath.

"Less of the language please, Blaine. I don't like it."

She sounded weak and defeated. It stunned him into silence.

"And I know there's something going on with you, you've been really distracted for weeks, especially today and last night. Just make sure it's not something I'd disapprove of."

She looked at him.

"Just promise me you're not doing drugs."

"I'm not doing drugs, mom."

She exhaled with relief.

"Okay, you can go now. I'll get started on dinner."

He raced out of the car, eager to check his phone away from her prying eyes.

* * *

><p>Dinner came and went and Kurt <em>still <em>hadn't texted. Blaine was beside himself with the worry that he'd screwed up. He lay on his bed, face in the pillow, trying to think about something other than what an enormous tool he was.

Damn it, he couldn't take it. He reached for his phone.

Kurt Hummel.

Call.

It didn't go through.

What the hell?

He tried again, after checking he had signal and the right number.

Again, he was cut off.

A little red dot caught his eye.

Two Facebook notifications.

He mindlessly opened the app and scrolled through the millions of choir showcases his friends-but-really-not-friends had invited him to.

A friend request. From Kurt.

So he wasn't angry. Blaine felt a hundred tonnes being lifted off his shoulders.

There was a message, too.

From Kurt.

_My phone got smashed up. It's in repair. Ring me asap. Kurt x_

And there, in black and white, was Kurt's home phone number. Blaine's heart raced. It was all a lot more physical than Kurt had let on.

It took him all of ten seconds to dial the number and hear it ring.

* * *

><p>"Hello, Burt here. If you're selling lawn furniture, it's the third time tonight and I become even less interested each time you ring." It was a deep, gruff voice. And very scary.<p>

"I'm not selling lawn furniture." He sounded so small and anxious.

"Debt consolidation?"

"No sir, I just want to speak to Kurt."

"Who's speaking?" The voice was even more terrifying than it had been before.

"It's Blaine."

"Never heard of ya, Blay. Don't go messing with my kid, okay? We don't wanna hear your abuse."

Blaine couldn't believe it. Well, he could believe Kurt hadn't mentioned him to his dad, but the man must be suspicious for a reason. Had the Hummels received hate calls?

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft, familiar voice that was just too far out of earshot to be understood.

But it suddenly became very clear.

"Blaine?" He sounded even smaller and more anxious than when Blaine had first met him.

"Hi Kurt. What happened?"

"I'm just going upstairs."

"Okay."

Silence, except for the tread of footsteps on the staircase.

"Right, I'm in my room."

"Okay."

Silence.

And then the smallest of voices.

"He – he did something really awful."

"Kurt?"

Kurt's breath hitched as he tried to stop himself from crying. Blaine's stomach somersaulted; he recognised that sound all too well.

"Your cell can be mended, I know it's horrible but I'm sure it'll be fine." He said it as calmly as he could manage.

Kurt's voice got even quieter.

"He – he kissed me."

"What?"

"I – I called him out, like you said. I asked why he was harassing me. Then he kissed me."

Kurt was now sobbing down the phone.

"I'm so _so_sorry, Kurt. I'm gonna get down to Lima right now."

"Blaine, it's like ten o'clock. And don't come all the way to Lima for me."

"I'll be at McKinley at lunchtime tomorrow, then."

"No."

"Yes.

A long pause.

"Okay."

"Okay. How can I get in touch with you?"

"I'm borrowing my dad's phone. I'll inbox you the number."

"I'll see you tomorrow, then. Stay strong, Kurt. It'll get better, I promise."

Blaine screwed his eyes up as he remembered the last person who'd said those words to him. He just hoped Kurt didn't hear anything strange in his voice.

"I hope so, I really hope so. Bye Blaine. And thanks. Thanks for being here."

"It's completely fine, Kurt, call whenever you need to. Promise me you will?"

"I promise. Same for you."

What? Did he _know_? Surely not.

He decided to press on regardless.

"Yeah, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, tomorrow."

"Bye."

"Bye."

And that was it. For now.

Had they really only known each other two days?

* * *

><p>The next day was Thursday.<p>

It also happened to be _the _Thursday. The Thursday. The Thursday that came before The Friday. The Friday that was election day.

Karen dropped Blaine at Dalton at six-thirty, apologising profusely that he'd had to be woken so early. He didn't complain, it just gave him more time to contact his father's car club.

As soon as the Mercedes had swung out of the Dalton gates onto Madeline Drive, Blaine sprang into action. First he called Winston, the chauffeur, and asked that a car be ready for him at ten. To pick him up from Dalton.

Winston was clearly reluctant to do such a thing, but Blaine knew that a big tip would keep the old man quiet (and 'BMA' off the invoice). It'd just look like another campaign trip: Michael was ferrying an entire campaign staff around Ohio right now, it wouldn't look suspicious at all. That part was a-go.

But now he had to sweet-talk the office ladies. He had a perfect record, and everyone knew that he arranged the music for The Warblers, but the saccharine (but inherently evil) Mrs. Hardwicke was a wily old fox who'd heard all the excuses in the book. Probably multiple times. His heart sunk when he saw that she was on duty.

He put on his best smile.

"Good morning Mrs. Hardwicke, I need to request a Leave of Absence form for today."

She peered up at him through her horn-rimmed spectacles, evidently surprised that _Blaine _was trying this.

"Seems terribly sudden, Blaine. Is everything okay?" Blaine felt bad as the woman's eyes filled with deep concern; she might think he was attending a funeral or something. Was he a bad person?

But then her eyes flickered for a millisecond, belying an underlying insincerity. He remembered then that she was a manipulative bitch and felt okay about what he was doing.

He quickly realised that two could play her game. He put on his sweetest, most innocent smile.

"Everything's fine, Mrs. Hardwicke. I found out I had to attend a choirmasters' conference in Lima only an hour ago. Boring but unavoidable."

Mrs. Hardwicke looked him up and down, examining him for any giveaway twitches. Damn he was good.

She parroted out her trump card. It was all or nothing.

"It's against school policy to give out same-day Leave of Absence forms."

Blaine switched the charm up another level. This was going to be harder than he'd thought, but he knew he could win. He smiled sweetly.

"I understand that, Mrs. Hardwicke, but it is an unusual circumstance that a student must attend a teachers' conference. It is not specifically mentioned in the rulebook."

He was completely right, it was not mentioned in the rulebook. She should know, she'd read it more than eighteen times. Damn him.

"Yes, I hear you." The defeat was evident in her voice. She didn't lose often, but Blaine was _smart_. She knew that from his GPA if nothing else. "I will phone Principal Baines to see whether we can circumvent policy, wait a second."

As soon as 'Anderson' was mentioned, Baines gave the go-ahead. Oh the merits of an unsoiled track record. Blaine had his Principal wrapped around his little finger.

Two minutes after that, and much to Mrs. Hardwicke's chagrin, a crisp Leave of Absence form (signed by the Principal himself) was firmly wedged in Blaine's blazer pocket.

Screw you, Mrs. Hardwicke.

* * *

><p>After he had attended his first two classes and told a dumbstruck Wes where he was <em>actually <em>going over a brief coffee at break, he strode out towards the gates.

He'd done it.

But.

"Blaine, Blaine, Blaine, wait up."

He sighed: everything was always too good to be true.

He tried to remain nonchalant. "Hello Mrs. Hardwicke. Is everything okay?"

"Yes, yes dear. You just forgot your school photograph."

Blaine took one look at it and instantly decided that it would not be going anywhere near his house. Knowing his dad it'd probably end up in campaign posters, and it wasn't a good picture. He looked strangely _evil_. Or something.

He'd left his bag in his locker so it wouldn't be a nuisance, so had no choice but to take it from her and stuff it in one of his blazer pockets. Judging from the way she cast her eyes around Blaine's misshapen pocket, she seemed to get a real kick out of the inconvenience she had caused. _But she _still _didn't go away_. Instead, she was casting her hawkish eyes around the concourse, as if looking for something far in the distance.

He curbed the urge to fidget.

Finally, she opened her mouth.

"Is your mother not here to pick you up?" It sounded like an innocent enough question, but he knew Mrs. Hardwicke.

"She's waiting further down the road. I told her about the circular about parents blocking the Dalton driveway."

She seemed appeased; if there was one thing she invested in more than her office lady superinsticts, it was the hefty Dalton rulebook. She knew it verbatim. She was even starting to _believe _Blaine, ignoring every part of her intuition that told her otherwise. It was good he knew her weaknesses.

"Alright, Blaine. Good luck at your conference." She gave him a respectful smile. Yep he was lying, but he'd won fair and square.

"Bye Mrs. Hardwicke."

He waited until he had heard Dalton's front door close before setting off down the street to look for the car. He hoped to God she wouldn't follow him. After a few moments he spotted it, parked down a sideroad just as he'd instructed. He hopped in and settled into the sumptuous leather seat. Soon afterwards he was on Route 33 to Lima, Ohio. He plugged the King's Singers into his ears and allowed himself to drift off. It was bound to be a long day.

* * *

><p>Ninety minutes later and Winston was pulling into Lima.<p>

"Where in Lima you lookin' to go?"

"Do you know where McKinley is?"

"Yeah. Got a regular on the books who works there. Sylvester? Yeah, Sue Sylvester. Always straps her trophies into the passenger seat." His thick Brooklyn accent gave way to a hearty chuckle. "She's a strange one, that one. Yeah. Anyway, d'ya know where you want dropping, son?"

"A sidestreet near the school, but not visible. Posh boy with chauffeur might not go down so well, you know." Winston grunted in understanding. "Thanks so much Winston, you're the man."

He slipped him $100.

"I'll probably call my mom to collect me, so no need to wait around. Thanks dude."

"Welcome. And I'll keep dis hush hush, you know."

"I know."

Blaine gave him a faint smile, before extracting his phone from his pocket and ringing Kurt's dad's phone. He walked and talked, and soon slipped his way onto McKinley's campus.

"Hello?"

That small voice. He guessed he hadn't come up on caller I.D.

"Hi, it's Blaine."

"Oh, thank God. Hi Blaine. Where are you?"

"I'm right at the bottom of the steps. You know, the ones with the wire cage around them?"

"Yes, I know the enclosure well. It's like a zoo here, honestly. I'll see you in a second."

And Blaine turned round.

And Kurt was there.

They smiled at each other as they headed up the steps.

"Thanks again for coming."

"Don't worry about it, just let me do the talking." He was going to make this right. He couldn't stand by and watch history repeat itself.

"There he is." It was all one word. Kurt was terrified.

"I got your back."

The hulk was now facing the two of them. There was no turning back.

Blaine squared his shoulders and made sure his voice would ring out clearly and confidently. "Excuse me."

He stopped. It had worked.

"Hey ladyboys. This your boyfriend, Kurt?"

They both ignored him. Neither knew what the other wanted. Damn, neither of them knew what _they _wanted.

"Kurt and I would like to talk to you about something."

"I've gotta go to class." He shoved Kurt into the balustrade.

He was clearly stupid as well as violent. It was _lunchtime_, and Kurt had already told him that Karofsky was on the same lunch rota as he was. Classes don't run at lunchtime. Or maybe he was in remedial…

Blaine's sceptical look didn't stop him from trying to get away.

"Kurt told me what you did."

Ah, that seemed to stop him well enough.

"Oh yeah, what's that?"

_Seriously? He was serious?_

"You kissed me." Kurt had found his voice.

Karofsky had lost his. His eyes darted around while he tried to recover it, before he eventually managed what essentially amounted to a feeble denial.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

But he knew. All three of them did.

"It seems like you might be a little confused, and that's totally normal. This is a very hard thing to come to terms with - "

Orrin's words came spilling out before he could stop them. They tasted bitter on his tongue: they shouldn't be wasted on a lowlife like this. And _damn_, he was getting away. That couldn't happen, not now.

Blaine pursued the hulk down the steps, Kurt following a few paces behind.

"And you should just know that you're not alone."

Something snapped.

A vicious hiss wrapped itself around his face.

Suddenly there were hands shoving him into the metal mesh surrounding the stairs.

"Do. Not. Mess. With. Me."

Blaine froze. It was a trigger, he couldn't stop it. He swallowed heavily, willing the memories to go away. He tried to shove them back where he wouldn't remember them, back where they belonged.

"You have to stop this."

Kurt. Thank God.

He seemed to have struck a nerve. Blaine watched as the bully sheepishly made his way back down the stairs, clearly disturbed by the events that had unfolded.

If only someone had been there to help him. And Orrin.

Especially Orrin.

He straightened out his uniform, more to piece his insides back together than anything else.

"Well he's not coming out any time soon." It was flippant, and wholly inappropriate. Neither of them laughed. Because it wasn't funny.

But it broke the silence. As Kurt slumped onto the concrete steps, Blaine realised there was more. It wasn't over.

So he asked.

"What's wrong? Why are you so upset?"

A pause. Blaine didn't know why Kurt was so hesitant.

"Because up until yesterday, I had never been kissed. Or at least, one that counted."

Oh.

Oh.

Blaine tried to take it in. Something precious had been taken, no stolen, from Kurt, something he could never get back. Before he could stop himself, he'd been transported back to the Westerville East parking lot. He could practically _feel _Orrin's hands wrapping themselves around the small of his neck, teasing that weird, newly-cut hairline as their mouths touched for the first time.

It had been perfect.

Even though it had been marred by ignorant hulks not unlike the guy he'd just challenged.

In that moment, Blaine was forever grateful that he'd been able to share something so special by his own volition with someone he loved. And he hadn't felt grateful in a long time.

He didn't really know what to say. So he went with The Anderson Way: buying stuff.

"Come on, I'll buy you lunch."

Really, Blaine? Thankfully, Kurt didn't seem to mind. So they went. He and Kurt just walked off campus, it was as easy as that.

* * *

><p>"Umm Kurt, I have a bit of an embarrassing confession."<p>

Kurt looked up at him expectantly, a smile edging its way across his face. This would be good.

"I don't have a licence." It came out very hurriedly. "Can we use your car?"

Kurt laughed loudly. Then stopped.

"Then how did you get here?"

"A lift."

"Oh god, Blaine, I hope I didn't put you out or anything. And why can't you drive?"

"I only just turned sixteen, Kurt, give me a break."

Kurt's eyes widened.

"You're a _sophomore_?"

"I know, everyone has difficulty in believing me when I tell them. I guess I just grew up fast."

Too right.

A companionable silence fell between the two of them as they clambered into Kurt's car as he drove them to Breadstix, apparently the best place in town.

Blaine looked over at the other boy.

"I'm here for you, you know that?" Kurt needed him, he was sure. Especially him. Because he'd lived through it all before.

"Yeah, I know that," Kurt replied. He looked straight into his eyes, "Thanks so much Blaine, you're a great friend. You hardly even know me and you picked up on stuff people who've known me since kindergarten had missed."

Could he see through it all? Did his thick, comforting cloaks turn to dust under his gaze?

"I guess you're just a really good judge of character."

It didn't seem like he could or they did. Thank god.

"And you need to get a new blazer, that one doesn't fit you properly. I could adjust it for you if you want, I'm a dab hand with a needle and thread."

Blaine shivered involuntarily. This was too much, too soon, too terrible. He tried to shake it off before Kurt noticed.

"Nah, it's just this stupid school photograph that the annoying school office lady insisted on giving me right before I left Dalton today. I look so evil in it, it's actually hilarious."

He reached into his inside pocket and retrieved the picture. Kurt smirked.

"Actually, could you get rid of it for me? I don't want it at home, for various reasons."

Kurt didn't ask. But he did take the photo.

"Yeah," he murmured, "I'll dispose of it."

And so began their afternoon. It was an afternoon in which Kurt consumed a lot of salad and Blaine a lot of cheeseburgers. An afternoon in which they discussed Chenowith vs. Menzel, Marc Jacobs vs. Brook's Brothers and Vogue vs…

Well, there's nothing like Vogue, is there?

It was an afternoon in which they realised that actually, they were similar people.

It was an afternoon in which Blaine discovered that they were _very _similar people.

Painfully similar.

Because Kurt's mom was dead. And so was Orrin.

And when you lose someone like that, it never really goes away. They're a good smell you can't wash off, their little phrases wound into your vocabulary as tightly as the ever-suppressed grief is bound around your heart.

He was sure Kurt was getting a whiff of it, but the boy couldn't know the details. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Blaine just wanted someone who _didn't _know, someone who wouldn't judge him for it.

Because he hadn't dealt with it enough to find himself an identity that existed apart from it.

And that was the truth of the matter.

* * *

><p><strong>AN I have literally spent the whole day on Tumblr. I have seen spoilers, I have seen stills, I have seen a sneak peak. SO. Excited. I'm never one to wish my time away, but can't it be Tuesday yet? Please.**

**Review/ Alert/ Favourite/ Do the Macarena**

**And I'll see you soon :)**


	13. Election

**Chapter 13: Election**

They'd been sitting in Breadstix for almost five hours, not that either of them realised it. Burger and salad plates had long since been cleared away, and Blaine had gone through at least seven soda refills. Their conversation continued to flit like a hyperactive bumblebee across a multitude of topics, hopping from politics to W. H. Auden to Vogue to syncopated rhythms in long and unbroken trajectories of animated chatter. It was as if they were old friends who'd just bumped into each other on the street, even though the exact opposite was true.

Blaine sat back against the booth, drinking in the acerbic wit of the other boy. He was old beyond his years with a humour so dry it was almost brittle, not to mention that he was terrifyingly knowledgeable about _everything_. _This_ was the real Kurt, this was what lay smothered within that restrictive but all-too-necessary icy armour.

The conversation raced on and on, fifty minutes seeming to pass in as many seconds. Blaine couldn't believe he'd spent all those years mispronouncing 'Givency' ("honestly, Blaine, it's 'jve-on-chee', not 'give-en-chay'"), so many years not knowing who Maud Allan was, so many years not knowing that palatinate is both a blue _and _a purple.

So many years not knowing anyone who'd been through a loss like his, not that Kurt knew of course.

It was all so _refreshing_.

Blaine mashed the last of the ice in his eighth soda while his mind tried to recollect the finer plot points of _Salomé. _Kurt seemed to be having no such trouble, having read it in its original French as well as the English version Blaine vaguely remembered.

"All I'm saying is that Wilde left a massive plot hole. I mean, what's the chance that the young girl is gonna remember –"

Kurt had stopped. Blaine looked up from his drink to identify the reason, mildly irritated that _anything _had interrupted the discussion they were having.

"Boys, I'm sorry but you're gonna have to take this elsewhere. We need to set up for the evening service. Here's your bill."

Blaine looked up at the middle-aged server, taking in her bad dye job and stained blouse with one bemused look. His eye settled on her name badge, which announced 'MY NAME IS… SANDRAH!' to the world through the chic medium of gaudy green plastic.

What was the harm in having a little fun?

"Yes, thank you Sandrah."

The woman looked confused, as if trying to recollect a previous encounter when this strange boy might have been told her name. Her brain was whirring even before he had asked his next question.

"Is the 'h' part of the pronunciation of your name? Like, is it Sand-RAH? Or is it just Sandra with an unvoiced H to make it classy and unique?"

He chanced a glance at Kurt, who was silently rocking into his diet coke.

"It's just Sandrah, like Sandra but Sandrah. Puzzled me a little when I was a young'un though. People forever spellin' it wrong. Spelled it wrong a good many times myself, I'll admit it, and all my mail is always a-comin' through to Sandra Dodds. Sometimes it's a little confusing. I'm like, who's Sandra?"

Kurt had now sunk below the table in an attempt to cover his laughter as the server continued to babble on obliviously. Though he was elated to have cheered Kurt up, Blaine felt (slightly) bad that the joke had been at this poor lady's expense. He flashed her a charming smile and gave her a generous tip to make up for it.

It was only after they'd left the restaurant that he'd realised that his receipt had 'Sandrah' and a phone number written on it.

Kurt only laughed harder.

"Oh my god, Blaine, that was the best end to an awful day," he said through fitful giggles. "I do feel awful for Sandrah the Cougar though, for her atrocious hair if nothing else." His contented chuckles continued for several more moments, and Blaine's heart warmed in symbiotic response.

But then everything went silent as a look of concern crossed Kurt's features.

"Wait, how are you getting home?"

Blaine glanced down at his watch. SHIT. It was 5:30pm _already_. _And_ it was voting day tomorrow. His parents would be out canvassing, he'd have no way home. He tried to maintain a calm demeanour.

"I'll call a cab, it'll be fine."

"From _here_, Blaine? That'll be at least $90, if not more. I'm not even sure they'll drive you out of Allen County unless you've pre-booked."

Blaine neglected to mention the $100 tip he'd passed to Winston, or indeed the $40 he'd slipped in Sandrah's direction. He didn't want Kurt to know he was the bound-to-be-Senator's son, he didn't want him to think he was rich or smarmy or arrogant. He _certainly _didn't want Kurt to Google 'Mike Anderson' and find out about his father's politics. At least every trace of Orrin's name had been removed from the web thanks to the tireless work of Mike's campaign train – what good was a Senator who couldn't even step in to help his son's best friend? That secret at least was relatively safe.

Which was just as well as Kurt had insisted on driving him home.

* * *

><p>Blaine had drifted off somewhere between Huntsville and Bellefontaine, exhausted from his brutal schedule of choral arrangements, practice, quizzes and AP Senior Math. It had been so nice to have taken the day off, and even nicer to have spent it with someone who just seemed to <em>get <em>him. There hadn't been anyone like that in his life since… Well, for a long time. The guys at Dalton were nice enough; they were interesting, funny, everything anyone could want in friends. But Kurt was somehow more than that.

By the time the Lincoln Navigator had passed into Westerville, Blaine was soundly asleep for the first time in weeks. The relaxing day had done him good, and the gentle shaking of the car as it progressed along the highway seemed to soothe him more than even his comfortable bed could manage.

Blaine got a good hour's rest before Kurt woke him at the top of Cremona Drive. Blinking in the fading evening light, he turned across to his friend, ready to start on conversation once again. Was it weird that they were already so comfortable sharing silence?

Then he noticed Kurt's wide-eyed expression. Fuck.

"Kurt, you okay? Sorry I fell asleep."

"No, Blaine, you needed the rest."

"Are you okay? You look kinda stunned."

"I've just never seen houses this big before. Well, except for the Paris Hilton-esque gin palaces on Cribs. These houses are beautiful. Do you live near here?"

Wow, this was awkward, especially as they were currently at the top of the road where all the smaller houses were. Fishy-Lips Francine liked to call them 'The Hutches', and the name had kind of stuck. It was all very appalling when he thought about it.

"Just continue on down the road. I live at the very end, it's the house with the iron gates."

"What, the massive one with that 'VOTE MIKE' banner on it?"

SHIT. Damn his mom and her stupid election fever.

"Umm, yeah, that one."

"Who's Mike?"

"It's the, ummm, the elections, you know, tomorrow - "

Blaine knew the game was up as soon as he saw the recognition flit across his friend's face. Kurt was probably going to hate him now. This was awful and terrible in every way; every negative adjective in his vocabulary could be applied to this moment, Kurt would _know _about his fath -

"SHUT UP. Your dad is _Mike Anderson_?"

Huh? He looked kind of _excited_.

"Yeah."

Kurt whistled.

"Wow. My dad works in a garage. You must think I'm really weird."

"I was more concerned you'd think the same about me."

"Of course not."

"Thank you, Kurt."

"I should be thanking you for missing school for me."

"It was nothing, it's all boring anyway."

And Blaine realised that Kurt wouldn't hate him. And Kurt realised that Blaine wouldn't judge him. And they both realised they wanted to see each other again in person; text messages and phone calls weren't enough any more.

"Hey, do you want to go out Tuesday night? My grandfather's hosting a party for all of his and my dad's Republican friends, and I use 'party' to mean a collection of smarmy self-important people collected together in the same room. I can't be there."

Luckily, Kurt didn't ask about the precise meaning of 'can't'.

"Anyway, I'd better go before they call out the security squad to check up on the mysterious car parked outside the gates.'

Kurt laughed until he realised that Blaine wasn't joking.

"Well… I'll see you then. Thanks once again for helping me out, it means a lot."

"Any time, Kurt, any time. And thanks for the ride, you saved me a hefty taxi fare. I'll see you Tuesday, I guess. I'll be in touch."

"Yeah, bye Blaine. Hope your dad wins."

"I don't."

It had been too quiet for Kurt to hear.

* * *

><p>Blaine opened the gates as soon as the Navigator had driven off out of sight. A vast army of people was standing on the lawn, hurrying to and fro clutching lists of statistics and opinion polls and itineraries. Everything was pointing towards an Anderson landslide.<p>

Blaine hid under his navy duvet. His dad was a doughface, a sell-out, whatever. The democrat would have done a much better job.

He fell asleep soon after, not caring about the assignments he needed to catch up on or the Warbler arrangements he had to complete. He _especially_ didn't care about the election race happening downstairs. He sunk into yet another deep sleep, exhausted from the emotion of the day.

* * *

><p>He was shaken awake not two hours later by a fuming 'Mike' Anderson. He was thrusting some kind of document in his face.<p>

"Explain this to me, mister. Explain it. Because you'd better have a pretty damn good reason for maxing out my chauffeur club hours THE DAY BEFORE ELECTION DAY. LIMA? LIMA? What were you doing there?"

"Mmmhmmmhmmm what?"

Blaine was too tired to register what was going on.

"You used my car to be driven to Lima today. I'm not stupid, son, I check my accounts thoroughly. Or at least, I pay Miranda to."

"Oh, sorry. Ohio Choir Conference. Last minute thing."

"Yes, that's what Mrs. Hardwicke said when she rang. But there _was _no Choir Conference today, was there? Because it is election day tomorrow and they'll be setting up, because Lima Memorial Hall is being used for ELECTIONS. And now I need to get to Marion, and I have no car. No car. What am I going to do, huh?"

"Umm, drive yourself there?"

"WHAT? HOW DO YOU THINK VOTERS WOULD REACT IF THEY KNEW I HAVE A MAYBACH AS MY EVERYDAY CAR? Seriously Blaine, it'd be like suicide. Man of the people, remember? MAN OF THE FUCKING PEOPLE."

It was the first time Blaine had ever heard this voice. It carried all of the thunder of Michael Senior's shouts, but there was something else to it too. Something _terrifying_ that stopped the whole 'Man of the People' charade from being even vaguely funny.

Blaine wracked his brain for other alternatives.

"Get mom to drive you?"

"She's not at my beck and call, you know. She's running her own campaign on my behalf. Or at least she was, before she had to deal with a one hour phone call from Mrs Hardwicke who was concerned that you'd run away from home."

Like fuck she was concerned. The bitch.

But then his father's voice changed as he went from candidate to dad.

"We were really worried."

"Worried about how it'd look that your son wasn't supporting your campaign, more like."

Whoops. Hello again anger.

"NO, BLAINE. WE WERE WORRIED BECAUSE WE DIDN'T KNOW WHERE THE HELL YOU WERE."

Blaine was stumped. His father _never _raised his voice like this.

"Well, I'm sorry."

"No you're not."

"I'm not sorry for going. I'm sorry that I maxed out your chauffeur hours and that I interrupted your campaign."

Michael looked across at his son doubtfully. Where had this attitude come from?

"Look, I don't have time for this now. Your grandfather is here to make sure you don't go running off again. He's angrier than I am, because he wanted to canvas with me and he's lost out on that now. Because of you. You've ruined his day, probably his month, I hope you're happy. This is his dream as much as it is mine."

He walked towards the door, before pausing and turning back towards his son. Blaine still couldn't bring himself to care. Much.

"And you are grounded indefinitely and… and… I'll think of more punishments when I get back."

And it was at this moment that Blaine realised that there were perks about your father not knowing anything about your hobbies and interest. Nothing known, nothing to be taken away.

"Good luck, dad."

He didn't mean it.

Within a second his father was gone, lost in a haze of stress and perspiration. A minute later and Blaine looked out of the window to see him tearing off in the rather unceremonious '69 Chevy. It was an amusing image. Blaine hoped the piece of shit broke down.

And he was _grounded_? That was the funniest thing of all. He'd never really been bad before. He hadn't really been bad this time either, all things considered. He would be ungrounded by Tuesday in time for an evening with Kurt, that much was certain.

He kicked back onto his bed and read some Wilde to refresh his memory before turning the TV onto the news channel in time to see live pictures from Marion. It was his dad in the Chevy, steam billowing from the bonnet. Blaine roared with laughter, partly from the image itself and partly from imagining the footage appearing on _The Daily Show_. He watched as his dad took several attempts to outsmart the shitty door mechanism, and had rolled onto the floor by the time the man had finally clambered out onto the street.

"I'm a man of the people, and these are tough times y'know," his father said desperately as the camera zoomed in on his face. Blaine's body actually started to shake with amusement; he couldn't decide whether it was the colloquialisms or the false humility that were the more tragic.

But then his blood ran cold as his father looked directly into the camera, his best smile plastered all over his face.

"I'll have you know that my son and I rebuilt this car together, and it's special to both of us."

The crowd around him cooed appreciatively. What. A. Guy.

It turned Blaine's stomach.

"And where is Blaine this evening? Is he not supporting you on the campaign train?" a reporter asked, her nasally voice cutting through the background hubbub.

It was freaky that they still remembered after all these months. They could publish anything any time (if they felt it was worth overstepping the injunction), and it'd all be back out in the open. Shit.

"He is at home. He is grounded, actually." Mike winked at the camera; he was _such_ a normal dad, after all.

Blaine cringed like a normal teenager despite himself, but continued to watch with rapt attention.

"And has he influenced your manifesto this time round? Any issues he's made you reconsider?"

Michael's face darkened for a second before the plastered-on smile made its glorious return. He knew what she was really asking, she knew he knew what she was really asking, and he knew that she knew that he knew. It was all so circuitous and tiresome.

"I like to keep my job and my family life as separate as possible. Neither should infringe on the other."

What?

The news switched onto a story about a lady and her cats before Blaine could even begin to list the many concerts, parents' evenings and swimming galas his father had missed. His political life didn't encroach on his parenting? What a crock of shit.

Blaine turned the TV off, burrowed deep under the covers and drifted off to sleep. He was so bored of the election already, and it hadn't even happened yet.

* * *

><p>The smell of bacon was all it took to convince a habitually sleepy Blaine to rejoin the land of wakefulness.<p>

Bacon.

BACONBACONBACON.

Dressed only in his pyjama pants, he descended the stairs towards the kitchen (and the smell). There was _never _bacon in the mornings; he usually just settled for some hastily-consumed cereal and juice. Just when he thought he'd embarked on the best, most lifelike dream ever in the history of the world, he remembered.

It was election day.

The bacon was probably a 'breakfast of champions' for his father.

Damn.

Oh well, maybe there'd be leftovers.

He pushed the door open, expecting to see his father and mother hunched over the papers at the breakfast bar. The sight that met him instead couldn't have been worse.

"Good morning, young man."

The voice was thunderous, even at six-thirty in the morning. Half-chewed gristle was spewed across the granite countertop as the man began to crunch his way through an enormous pile of bacon.

"Good morning, grandfather."

Blaine suddenly wished he'd got dressed, brushed his hair, gelled his hair, put socks on (even though he hated them), rubbed the sleep from his eyes… In fact, there wasn't one aspect of his just-woken appearance that he wouldn't change in an instant. He could detect the burn of his grandfather's eyes as they honed in on the elephant pendant, its silver chain glittering against his bare chest. It felt like a violation.

"The dress code's changed somewhat at that school of yours." Dead pig flew everywhere as the man began to laugh uproariously.

"I apologise, grandfather."

He tried not to look at the elder's mouth as it chewed on the bacon; throwing up would be an even worse look than his ill-fitting pyjama pants.

"I suppose you ought to be fed. Do you want some bacon? I'll have Sophie bring some for you."

At that, a busty middle-aged woman appeared in the doorway. She appeared to be entirely tired of life, no surprise given the disposition of her employer.

"This is Sophie, I had her brought in this morning from the house in Michigan so she could cook my breakfast. Wouldn't do to let her slack off now, would it boy? I pay her to work, so work she will." He continued to laugh, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his grandson hadn't joined him.

Blaine, of course, said nothing. Instead, he amused himself by trying to calculate whether there was more chewed up bacon on the counter than in his grandfather's stomach. It was a close call.

Three minutes passed, all silent save for the occasional chewing noise made as Michael Sr. hit a bit of gristle. Blaine tried not to look at him.

But then a bellow came out of the blue, accompanied with a great deal of finger snapping.

"Hurry up Sophie, we don't want the pig to get reincarnated before we've had the chance to eat the damn thing."

Yep, the impossible had happened: he'd become ruder. Bastard. Poor Sophie seemed to have aged half a century by the time she'd returned with yet another platter of bacon.

"Mmmm" the grandfather murmured as he stabbed a particularly large rasher with his greasy fork. He ignored Sophie as she departed, despite his evident enjoyment of her cooking.

"I bet you love to chew on a good bit of meat."

Blaine dropped his head, unsure of whether his grandfather had meant to make a reference to, well, _those_. He only had a rasher to go and then he could escape.

He should've known that his grandfather would be incapable of just leaving it.

"Y'know, boy, I always knew you'd end up a fag." It was arrestingly conversational, so much so that Blaine nearly spat out his mouthful of food. He opened his mouth to make a response but his brain seemed incapable of speech.

His grandfather saw this as his cue to continue. Damn.

"When I first saw you as a baby, the thing that struck me above all else were those odd thumbs of yours, certainly fished out of your mother's weak gene pool. I took one look at you and said to Michael, I said, 'You'd better watch that one, he'll turn out queer if you don't do something now.' He ignored me, of course, always did think he knew best."

A pause as he tried to munch his way through a particularly tough piece of pork.

"Even when you started writing with the wrong hand, your father did nothing. And look at you know, fucked up to the highest degree. And it's no wonder that all that time passed without him noticing that you were receiving fag lessons from that dead boy –"

"Go."

It was his grandfather's turn to be speechless. He just sat there with his mouth hanging open, displaying his half-chewed gristle to the world.

"I said, go." Blaine's voice appeared strong and clear, to his grandfather's ears anyway.

"I shall do nothing of the sort."

Blaine blinked to stop the angry tears from falling down his face. He should have expected this; these venomous words had been on the tip of his grandfather's tongue for months, if not years. He could feel his face turning red with anger, his hands beginning to form themselves into fists.

But for the first time in a long time, fury didn't turn to rage.

Instead, a calm voice cut across the breakfast bar like a dagger of ice.

"Do you think I chose to be gay?"

"No."

Great. It was a start.

"Why am I, then?"

"You were born with sick thoughts in your head, probably inherited from that awful mother of yours. Then, due to my son's bad parenting under the influence of your mother, you were able to act on it before anyone could nip it in the bud and give you a good lesson in why you deserve a good beating."

Ah beatings, that old successful solution.

"So I was born gay?"

"You were born defected. And you're a coward for not correcting your evil inclinations. Look where they've got you. Not good, eh?"

Blaine shoved the stool back in a singular, decisive movement. He ran out of the kitchen, almost knocking Sophie (and her latest platter of mushrooms and bacon) to the floor, and bolted up the stairs into his room. He yanked open his cupboard and shrugged on his Dalton uniform, before heading to the bathroom to gel his hair (which, for once, came out perfectly). He grabbed his books and satchel, and bolted outside to join Wes in his car.

His full day of lessons and rehearsals seemed like a reprieve compared to the Hell that lurked behind those iron gates.

* * *

><p>The day passed in a whirlwind of "My dad's voting for your dad"s and "Bro, your arrangements are sick"s. Blaine couldn't take anything in until he was back in his room, safe from the overwhelming whirlwind that now constituted the outside world. His thoughts were still occupied by what had transpired that morning. Why did he even care? Why was he seeking the approval of a man who he'd hate even if he lavished him with gifts? Everything his grandfather had said had been rude, misinformed and hateful, so why did he still yearn for his recognition and love?<p>

And why was he finding himself beginning to believe those cruel and twisted words?

He began to cry. Again. He furiously rubbed his face, scolding himself for being a self-indulgent sissy. A _gay_, poncy,self-indulgent sissy.

His hand, operating as if on auto-pilot, moved to his retrieve his phone from his pocket.

Kurt picked up three seconds later.

"Blaine! How's the voting going?"

He immediately felt a hundred times better, a result of the voice rather than the subject matter.

"I'm not sure, I'm just trying to stay out of the way."

"Great. You know, I had the best English lesson today. We had a sub called Miss Holliday and she got these girls to sing a song about conjunctions and connectives and clauses. Of course I knew basic grammar in like, the second grade, but it was still fun to have an English teacher with more than a basic grasp of our mother tongue. And those girls aren't even _in _the glee club and they had these incredible voices, I might talk to them, but their _fashion_ sense Blaine, I mean _seriously_…"

He carried on for a solid three minutes. Blaine laughed longer and harder than he had all day.

"…And then Brett, you know, Brett."

"Trampy Brett? B.O. Brett?"

"The very same. He told me that the whole thing was _really trippy, _but I'm pretty sure he was stoned or high or both. Oh and the _smell _of him and that godwaful khaki jacket of his, oh my god Blaine, I had to sacrifice some of my 'Rain' by Marc Jacobs just to get through the lesson. I literally drenched him in it and the stench was _still _there. I honestly thought I was going to retch."

Kurt stopped his story as suddenly as he'd started it, leaving silence save for the dull hiss of the active line.

"Anyway," he eventually continued, "What's been going on with you? How's your dad doing? Is it like _The West Wing_?"

Blaine laughed.

"No, not quite. And he's ahead in the opinion polls, like, way ahead."

"That's good, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"You don't sound too happy about it."

"Well, I'm a democrat. I disagree with about seventy percent of his policies."

Kurt hummed in understanding.

"It must be very hard."

And that was the first time anyone had ever realised that it _was _hard. Blaine hadn't known it until this moment, but he was so sick of people telling him how cool it was that the president knew his father by name, how amazing the experience of having a father running for office would be, how lucky he was to be descended from a Yale-educated lawyer at the top of his game.

But all he knew was that he and his father had once been incredibly close. And that now they weren't.

"Blaine? Are you still there?"

"Mmmm. Can we talk about something else?"

"Yeah, let's decide what we're doing Tuesday."

"I'm grounded."

This time, Kurt _did _laugh.

"Oh please, what did you do?"

"I carjacked my dad's Maybach. Don't worry, I wasn't the driver. My driver's test is soon, but unfortunately not soon enough."

Kurt laughed even harder.

"There are so many hilarious things about what you just said, I can't quite digest them all. One: your dad drives a _Maybach_ but I saw him in that shitty car on TV last night, a '69 Chevy was it? Two: you, Blaine Anderson, performed a _Grand Theft Auto_ on said Maybach, _and_ instigated others in the heist. Three: you got _grounded_. Four: You got grounded right before you take your driving test."

"And five: it's my first time ever getting grounded. I don't quite know what to do with myself. It's so tragic."

Kurt gasped.

"Your first time getting grounded was for stealing a car? That - "

"Technically, I just _borrowed _it, along with my dad's chauffeur."

There was a short silence. FUCK, why did he spill that one? What would Kurt thi –

"Well, it's all very simple actually," Kurt replied, obviously not at all surprised that Blaine's father would have a chauffeur.

"Why?"

The boy lowered his voice conspiratorially. "You just sneak out."

"Where shall we go?"

"I was thinking The Lima Bean, since you're so fond of that Dalton coffee which, by the way, is not a patch on The Bean's. It's actually quite a way south of Lima, more or less mid-way between you and me. I guess they didn't want to waste that _hilarious _pun on my town's name- The Marion Bean doesn't quite have the same ring, does it?"

"Not quite," Blaine agreed, his voice warm and his heart happy.

"Well, I'll see you then. Hope you survive the election! Ring me whenever you want, I'm always here. It makes me so happy when you ring."

"Same here," Blaine said in response. "See you Tuesday."

"Yeah, bye."

"Bye Kurt."

They hung up. For the first time in days, Blaine actually felt like working on his music. In a single night he churned out _Hey, Soul Sister_, _She's Always a Woman _and _I'm Yours_, as well as a half-decent draft of Cyrillus Kreek's _Psalm 121 _for the upcoming choral champs. He was _on fire _tonight.

He only looked up at the clock when he heard a mixture of loud voices pour into the hallway. Six AM. The results would be in.

A loud tap on his door followed soon enough.

"Blaine, Blaine, wake up son." It was his father's voice. Blaine swivelled around on his chair to face the door as he prepared for them to invade his sanctuary.

Sure enough, his door was pushed open not five seconds later, and five smartly-dressed adults filtered in and surrounded him.

His father smiled, warm and genuine for once. "Son, say hello to Senator Michael Anderson of Ohio."

Fuck. The inevitable had happened, as inevitable things have a habit of doing.

Blaine simply rolled his eyes and turned back towards his manuscript-covered desk.

"Well done," he eventually murmured.

"Thanks son. Now put away all that musical singing nonsense and come downstairs for a drink."

"I think I'll just go to sleep."

He rolled under the covers without taking in the stricken expression that had descended over his father's face.

"You're still grounded."

Oh.

"Go away. All of you, just go."

And they did.

Thank god.

* * *

><p><strong>AN Deepest, most profound apologies for the massively delayed update. I've had a lot of work and I've basically been living on ProPlus (caffeine tablets) and white chocolate chip cookies. Fun and games.**

**I hope to get the next update out soonish. I break up pretty soon for Christmas but I'll have a lot of work set for those holidays so it won't be much of a let up. It's taking me quite a long time to write nowadays because I have to rewatch each S2 episode so I can integrate the detail of the canon plotpoints (I may or may not have found an example of a Breadstix badge…) Not that I'm complaining :) Also, I'm sorry if I made a mistake about the time it takes for the election results to come through in the US. I looked online but couldn't find anything so just based it on what happens here in the UK. Suspend your disbelief if I'm wrong :)**

**Please review/alert/favourite, it makes me smile (or roll around on the floor giggling when I've consumed one ProPlus too many). Thanks so much for sticking with me, sorry I've been so busy :(**

**Bye for now :)**


	14. Grounded

**Chapter 14: Grounded**

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.  
>They may not mean to, but they do.<br>They fill you with the faults they had  
>And add some extra, just for you.<p>

- _This Be The Verse, _Philip Larkin

* * *

><p>Blaine wasn't entirely sure what 'being grounded' should consist of, but that didn't make him any less sure that this wasn't it.<p>

The weekend had passed in a blur of fleeting visits from journalists, all keen to interview Ohio's Senator-elect (and bow in worship, lick his floor, eat his garbage, kiss his ass, whatever). Karen had traded her smart Valentino dresses for a horrible matronly blouse, and roamed the house with a tray of 'freshly-baked cupcakes' in case a photographer should happen to be passing. Their family was, after all, so _grounded_, so attuned to the people they represented. 'Mike', meanwhile, had his face set in a jaw-breaking grin, opening a new bottle of Bollinger for each visiting journalist in the hope that they would still regard him favourably if (when) he had to tweak the promises he had made in his manifesto. Grandfather Michael, never one to understay his welcome, circled around the house like a vulture seeking carrion.

And Blaine sat in his room. All weekend. He finished every assignment for the term, arranged for the Chapel Choir, listened to Roxy Music. No one had bothered him for two days, and it had been fantastic.

And then he'd gone to school. Monday had been uneventful, Tuesday even more so. There hadn't even been a Warbler rehearsal to look forward to, as Wes had reluctantly rescheduled to Thursday to accommodate the senior geography trip. At least that meant he'd be home by four with nothing to do until he snuck out with Kurt. It was basically the only thing he had to look forward to that week.

But Karen seemed intent on intruding on his peace.

At five o'clock, just when he'd been thinking about his knitwear choice for the night, his mother had sent him to the convenience store to pick up last-minute ingredients for her to pretend to use while Sophie prepared canapés for the gathering.

And then, after he'd walked all the way back laden with grocery bags, she'd sent him right back out again to buy fruit to show that they had a healthy home.

And then again to collect magazines 'normal' women would read. Blaine's flustered expression was met with a tired and hushed, "You're gay, Blaine. Aren't you supposed to more about this than I do?"

He was shoved out of the door before he could tell her that a love of female magazines was not, as far as he was aware, a prerequisite for fancying boys. He plodded down the all too familiar street, then down another and then another, before he arrived in Westerville town centre. Yet again.

The convenience store was a no-go; a third consecutive visit was just plain weird, and the shopkeeper would probably think he was creating an alibi for himself or something.

Main Street it was. He ambled down past Horton's, the ice cream place, the granny shoe shop.

And then he heard it.

"Fag."

There it was, clear as day.

He ripped his Blackberry earphones from his ears and cast his eyes around the street. There was no-one about. As far as he could tell, anyway.

"Faggynerdnerdyfag."

"Same faggy hair."

"Probably fucks it or something."

"Spreading his gayness."

He couldn't _see _them, the streets were empty. But he could definitely, _definitely _hear them. Dizzy and sick, he had grown so hot he could feel himself melting his way out of his woollen winter coat. He darted into the dark alley between Déjà Vu and Schneider's The Bakers, almost retching at the smell. As soon as he'd stopped shaking uncontrollably , he fumbled his way into his pocket and retrieved the Blackberry, automatically scrolling through the short list of contacts.

His hands had already learnt their way to 'Kurt'.

Blaine's fingers hovered over the call button, his body willing him to do it. _Just call him_.

But then Kurt'd guess.

And he'd be right.

And it was Blaine's job to help and protect Kurt, not the other way round. It wasn't as if his friend needed any more problems to add to his own.

* * *

><p>Home.<p>

The phone was answered after ten rings, some kind of record.

"Hello?" It was Karen's voice, cold and businesslike.

"Hi, um - "

"How did you get this number? This is our family line. Please contact us through the same channels as everyone else."

And then the dial tone. Typical.

He tried again, and this time she answered before the first ring had ended.

"It's Blaine." It was a loud whisper; _they_ could be anywhere.

"Oh, sorry, I'd forgotten about you. I've been so busy."

Blaine was too shaken to care that he'd been ignored yet again. He summoned all of his courage and poured it all into one sentence.

"Mom, I need you to collect me. Now."

"I really don't have time, Blaine. I know your legs must be a little tired but it's quite lazy and selfish of you to-"

"Mom, _please_."

His mother's voice hitched.

"What's wrong, Blaine?"

He sobbed.

"I don't know I don't know just come and get me right now I need to come home and I can't move and-"

"Where are you?"

"The alley next to Schneider's."

"Oh God Blaine, that's where the tramps live. Just get yourself into the daylight, seriously." Her voice then became quieter as she distanced herself from the phone, so much so that the muffled "Get a car to Schneider's on Main Street for Blaine" barely made its way to the boy's ears.

Peeping out from the darkness onto the street showed him that there was still no-one around. _But that didn't mean they weren't hiding somewhere_. Blaine compromised with a sort of half-in half-out approach, and had managed to compose himself enough to walk sensibly from the alley to the street as soon as he spotted the familiar Maybach drawing up beside Schneider's.

He climbed into the back, just as he had on that trip to Lima. But the driver's seat was further forward than it had been, the air was differ-

A booming voice spoke the words Blaine had been suppressing.

"You're pathetic."

"Grandfather, I-"

The car whirred back into life. Michael Sr. continued in a level and even tone.

"I know what happened, Blaine."

Blaine snapped to rapt attention: this was, as far as he could remember, the first time his grandfather had called him by name. His voice was more thunderous than Blaine had ever heard it.

"You need to get over it."

A silence fell as they navigated the streets, Michael Sr. weaving his way between the other enormous vehicles parked at irregular intervals along the road.

Then, just as the car ground to a halt outside the house, his grandfather began to talk once more.

"I've seen it before. Vietnam '65. You know what those guys were?"

Blaine had _never _heard his grandfather discuss the war. Ever. All he knew was that the man had briefly served in Vietnam as a sergeant.

Blaine shook his head, still too rattled to speak.

His grandfather exploded, and Blaine began to physically tremble in the back of the car.

"COWARDS. FUCKING COWARDS. EVERY LAST ONE OF THEM. I could tell you the names of ten people who offed themselves as soon as they got out of the army, and over the next twenty years that number had at least tripled. Shotgun to the head. Dead. Gone. Weak bodies, weaker minds."

He slammed his fists on the steering wheel, and silence descended until he launched into a massive non-sequitur.

"The guests have arrived and your father and I decided that it's best to keep you away from them. Go in through the side door."

And with that, he opened the door and clambered out. He didn't wait for his grandson.

* * *

><p>Blaine slammed the door behind him as the party continued downstairs, throwing himself into the welcome softness of his bed. He didn't allow himself to think about why he'd frozen up like that. It had been worse than the chapel incident, and a million times scarier. Had he gone crazy?<p>

But he was okay. He was definitely okay. And the more time passed since that appalling November night, the better he would be.

_That _night.

Feeling himself beginning to tense up again, Blaine searched for the clock in the hope that it would provide him with some kind of welcome distraction. It was ten to six; Kurt would be dropping by any minute.

Five minutes of staring into space later and the Blackberry began to vibrate. Kurt had arrived.

Blaine eyed up the window as he had done when they'd planned this on the phone. His room was only on the second floor, thank goodness, and it had the huge advantage of being directly above the porch of one of the side doors. Without thinking twice, he slid out of the window and onto the porch and then jumped down onto the soft turf. He ran to the Navigator and clambered inside, and before long they were on the highway, weaving their way through the rush hour traffic as they made their way to Marion.

Conversation came quickly and easily, as it always did. Blaine couldn't remember anything he'd said, anything he'd laughed at, anything he'd drunk. But he did feel infinitely more relaxed and together than he had at the beginning of the evening, and so, judging from his easy smile, did Kurt.

The only thing now was to get back into the house.

They hadn't thought of that part.

* * *

><p>From the chatter emanating from the house's core, it was clear that the party was still in full swing. Blaine and Kurt each ran around the outside, trying each of the side doors which all proved to have been locked. The back door led directly into the room of the party. That left the front door. SHIT.<p>

Blaine gave Kurt a quick hug goodbye and proceeded to open the door, turning his key absurdly slowly in the lock to minimise noise. He pushed the door open, light spilling out onto the porch in a single triangular beam.

The hallway was empty. He'd done it.

"Excuse me, do you have an invitation to this party?" A figure moved out of the dark cloakroom and into the light.

SHITFUCKSHITCOCKSHITFUCK. _Of course _his parents had hired a bouncer.

"Um, I'm Blaine Anderson. Their son."

"A likely story, boy."

Seriously? _Seriously?_

The man pressed a button on his walkie-talkie and before long a hugely flustered Karen Anderson ran into the hallway.

"An intruder? Where?"

"Here, ma'am."

She looked over at Blaine and a shadow of confusion crossed her face.

"Oh, that's Blaine. That's my son."

Blaine stared down at the floor, but he could practically detect the cogs whirring in his mother's head. He looked up in time to see her eyeing him suspiciously.

"Did you go out?"

No point lying.

"Yes."

"Aren't you grounded?"

"Allegedly."

Her face didn't give anything away.

"I think we need to go to your room and have a discussion."

And within seconds, Blaine found himself following her up the stairs.

* * *

><p>Karen sat in his leather armchair, Blaine on the edge of his bed.<p>

She looked deep into his eyes.

"What is this all about, Blaine? Is it the attention? I know it's hard for you, we're just trying to do what's best for everybody."

Blaine could feel rage boiling deep in his stomach but succeeded in remaining calm, at least superficially. They were doing what was best for everybody. Everybody _except _him.

"No, it's not for attention. How could it have been? If it hadn't been for that stupid doorman, you'd never have noticed I'd left."

Karen's heart sank; he argued well and, more importantly, he argued the truth. Her son had certainly inherited his father's legal brain, there was no question of it.

"Where were you?"

"Out with friends."

Karen didn't even know he _had _friends.

"Were you drinking?"

"Yes, coffee."

"Were you smoking?"

"No! I would never do that, mom."

"Were you engaging in high-risk activity?"

"NO, mom. I went out because I just needed to get away, okay."

"There's been a lot of you needing to 'get away' recently, Blaine."

And then the hard edge to her voice vanished, almost as if it had never been there at all. She looked searchingly at his face before she began to speak once more.

"I have one question, Blaine. And I need you to answer it as honestly as possible."

His breath hitched. This was it, she was going to find out about Kurt and maybe stop them from being friends because of the Press and his dad and –

"Do you need to see someone about this? I mean, your father would certainly disapprove and your grandfather, well…"

Blaine couldn't stop the relief from washing over his poker face. _She hadn't asked who he'd been with_.

He didn't even need to think about it.

"No, mom. I'm fine. Seriously."

She seemed to accept it. Probably because it was easier to think your son was fine than to waste energy worrying, but anyway.

She reached over and patted his knee.

"I need to get back to the guests. I won't punish you because your father had already technically ungrounded you, he just forgot to say so. He won't know about this, okay?"

Blaine nodded as she moved towards the door, relief flooding his body with every step she took.

But then she turned.

"And Blaine?"

"Yes."

"I'll be keeping a _very _close eye on you from now on."

She looked him straight in the eyes.

"I don't believe that you're fine. I don't believe that you're even vaguely okay. But I can't force you to do anything you don't want to do, I just can't."

Before Blaine knew what was happening, she had darted back across the room and held his head against her chest. She gripped him tightly as if he was made of sand that could trickle away at any second.

"I love you Blaine, I do. Don't you ever, _ever _think I don't. It's just this politics thing, it's all-consuming you know. It's a charade, it's a lie, but it's also the only way we can make a difference. And I honestly believe that your father is making a huge and valuable difference to Ohio. And it's his dream, it's my duty to support him."

Blaine swallowed, uncomfortable as she maintained her grip. They weren't a touchy-feely family. At. All.

"I know, mom. I know you try your best."

"Blaine, stop it. You deserve better. You deserve better from me, your father, your grandfather. Don't think I miss all those appalling things he says to you, and I bet it's worse when your father and I aren't around, isn't it?"

Blaine just nodded.

"It's a tough line, Blaine, you must know that. He does a great deal for your dad, supporting his campaigns financially _and_ with his standing as a businessman. We _need_ him. And I'm sorry he's so unaccepting, I really am. He's a miserable bastard."

Blaine found himself smiling. He had always guessed that his mother hated the old coot too.

"But seriously, Blaine, really do think about seeing someone. I know it must be incredibly hard for you to even function on a day-to-day basis, let alone deal with the tricky situations your stupid, unthinking mother puts you into. I really am so sorry, Blaine, and I understand. I do."

Blaine's heart lurched. In a bad way. How could she presume to know what he felt? But he was fine. Mostly.

"You don't understand."

And then she started to cry. _Really _cry. Her make-up ran in two black rivers, covering her perfect skin in a thick layer of dark mud. He'd never seen her like this before, ever.

"I do understand, I do. I really, really do. Don't ever tell me that I don't."

He was stupefied into silence. She grabbed his hair and started to ruffle it between her fingers, breaking it out of its thick coating of gel. He hated people touching his hair but he was far too weirded out to move.

"You know when women get pregnant?"

It was kind of rhetorical, but he nodded anyway. This was so weird.

"They do a lot of scans to check the baby is okay. You know, ultrasounds, stuff like that."

Blaine nodded again.

"Well, when they were scanning me, about three months into the pregnancy, they found you."

No shit.

"But they found something else, too."

Blaine looked up at her, wondering why he'd never heard anything about this.

"They found cancer, all around my ovaries."

He gasped. Why hadn't anyone told him?

"They ending up having to remove them. I was so worried that it'd harm you, that you wouldn't survive. They adjusted my treatment in the hope of keeping you alive. I was so elated when you were born, it just seemed like a miracle."

She continued to ruffle his hair, worrying it between her fingers.

"Your father was delighted, even your grandfather was overjoyed, not that he knew anything about the surgery of course."

Huh, that wasn't what Michael Sr. had told him. Something about fag hands, wasn't it?

"But as you grew into a toddler, developed that eccentric personality of yours, you just… You just made me wish I could have more children, you know?"

Blaine's heart ached in sadness for her.

"But I couldn't. And of course, your grandfather was hugely unhelpful about the whole thing, dropping hints about when I was going to get pregnant again, stuff like that. And your father was starting to investigate politics, and I just couldn't take it all any more. So I went to a therapist, when you were eight or nine, and I found ways of managing it. But that way is often to distance myself from things that upset me, and so when all the _stuff _happened, I just didn't know what to do. I am so sorry, Blaine."

Somewhere along the line his eyes had started watering.

"Mom, there's nothing you do to change it now. Look at us, we can't even bear to address it as more than just _stuff_. The reality is that my friend died, my best friend, and it's kinda my fault it happened. And you weren't there for me. No one was. And I've carried on this long without help, so why would you think I needed any now? The horse has bolted, mom."

She looked at him with an intense and searching stare.

"You're broken. Sure, you cover it up well, brilliantly even, but you're damaged. You're not _you_ any more. And you know how I know?"

Blaine shook his head.

"I know because I have that awful old man berating me night and day. I know because I lost something precious to me. Not in the awful circumstances that you endured, nothing like them, but I can still empathise. I totally can."

And then she sobbed her way out of the room, no doubt to correct her make-up and eradicate all hints of the situation she'd left behind.

Blaine knew in his heart of hearts that she was right. He was damaged. He was broken. He wasn't fine, but he wouldn't let her truly know that, he _couldn't_ let her in. It would get better with time, surely it would.

And no one else must know. Ever.

* * *

><p>Few things are worse than the feeling that there is something wrong with you.<p>

Especially if everyone who looks at you thinks you're perfect, your family's perfect, your talents are perfect, your (super-rehearsed) natural charisma is perfect.

Yeah, you love the 2010 Marion Cotillard Vogue cover. Sure, you've read Patti LuPone's new book. Three times.

And oh my God, you like football? Way to break the stereotype.

And you sit on the Dalton Student Government?

And you're a musician, arranger _and_ lead singer?

And you live in the largest house on Westerville's most exclusive street?

And your dad's a _senator _and your grandfather's a tycoon?

And you're a reserve for the Ohio Swim Team, even though you could easily be more if you'd only commit to it?

Oh, and you're going to graduate top of your class, right? Ivy League, is that what you want?

And yes, you do want. So badly.

But if they knew, none of any of that would matter. Because it was all one big fat lie. All you are is a coward, and the fewer people who realise it the better.

They're all in love with you. Well, someone that is kind of a bit like you. Like, an idealised version of you.

But you don't deserve to have them.

Not really.

Not at all.


	15. The Penitent

**Chapter 15: The Penitent**

_Penitents are compared to elephants. And rightly are penitents set forth by elephants, in whom exists the virtue of clemency; for, if they see a man wandering through the deserts, they afford him their guidance till he reaches a road that he knows; or, if they meet with herds of cattle, they make a way for themselves with their kind trunk._

- Sermon of St. Anthony of Padua, 12th-13th Century CE

* * *

><p>Blaine flopped onto his bed, finally relaxing for the first time in a week. He'd passed his driving test. ACTUALLY PASSED HIS DRIVING TEST. By some miracle, the random tester dude who'd sat in the passenger seat while he manoeuvred between those plastic cones and did his three-point turn had somehow missed his complete inability to parallel park (or bay park, or <em>anything <em>park) and had PASSED HIM. He had a licence and everything. All he had to do was avoid parking. Forever. Easy enough, right?

The only one thing he wanted to do in celebration, aside from jumping on the bed and throwing himself around his room because he hadn't screwed up, was celebrating with another person who would be equally pleased. After reaching down into his pocket for his BlackBerry, he scrolled through his contacts, his fingers performing the task through muscle memory.

Kurt.

He picked up before the first ring was over. Thankfully Blaine had just about summoned enough self-control to swallow down all his flailing weirdness before the other boy was able to detect it.

"Guess who just passed his driving test?"

"Blaine! What? That's great!"

"I know, right?"

"But wait, how _on earth _did you pass? Did they not ask you to park the car at any point during or after the test?"

"Nope, no parking was involved at all. Well, only at the end, obviously, and the whole parking lot was empty so I wasn't freaked out in the slightest. I can stop the car, kinda, I just can't park it in an enclosed area."

Kurt sighed as if the simple act of breathing had suddenly become an unbearably laborious task.

"You know what my dad calls drivers like you, Blaine?"

"Awesome ninjas of the road?"

"No, Blaine. He calls them 'customers'."

He then laughed uproariously down the phone, obviously still amused that Blaine could be such a shockingly terrible driver.

"At least you'll get a reduced rate on all those bumper repairs, I suppose."

"Your dad would do that?"

"Probably, he's already asked when you'd be coming over for dinner. In fact, how does tomorrow night sound?"

Umsjdkoasd? Meeting the parents? Well, parent.

It was all so sudden.

"Really?"

"No Blaine, I just asked you for the fun of it. _Of course _you're welcome, silly."

"I really don't want to be an imposition, Kurt."

"Good, you'll be there. Bye Blaine."

He'd gone before Blaine could even begin to mention his intense aversion to anything wholegrain.

* * *

><p>Friday.<p>

School was out, Warblers was over, he was home.

But that meant it was almost time to leave for Kurt's.

He had honestly not given the evening a great deal of thought, but that was mainly because he hadn't had a single spare second to think of anything that wasn't happening in the immediate present. Now that the future was now and he had all of three minutes to put all his school stuff away _and_ make himself presentable, he began to realise that a little more planning and a lot more organisation would not have gone amiss.

After chucking his bag and manuscript folder in the general direction of his closet, he peered into his mirror. Heavy bags were drooping under his eyes and the skin on his forehead was starting to develop those horrid little fleshy pimples, auguries of an imminent break-out. He looked upwards and noticed that his hair was beginning to curl, no doubt from running around all day from class to sectionals rehearsal to class to car to home to room. Damn. The hair was the only thing he had the time (and know-how) to fix, and a little more Brylcreem could hardly do any harm. That was the best thing about it: it was _literally _impossible to use too much.

Realising that he had no time to change, Blaine tore down the corridor towards his parent's bathroom in search of his father's aftershave. Seeing that there was none to be found, he picked up the nearest bottle (Jo Malone Pomegranate Noir? What the hell was a black pomegranate anyway? Passion fruits are black, pomegranates are red...), and sprayed himself liberally. Very liberally. He smelt like a taxi.

Oh well, too late now. Hastily gathering up his keys, wallet and phone, he shot outside towards his car (HIS CAR, THAT HE COULD DRIVE). A flick of the stereo and the vehicle was filled with the dulcet tones of Train's _Hey Soul Sister_, which had become a 95% shoe-in for Sectionals after Wes had heard the scratch arrangement on GarageBand. Hurtling down the highway, it was hard to imagine life getting much better than this.

* * *

><p>Blaine was bouncing on his toes as he heard footsteps approach the other side of the door. Seeing Kurt just seemed to make him that much more energetic.<p>

But the Kurt that opened the door wasn't the same Kurt he'd seen less than a week ago. If Blaine had thought he had eye bags, Kurt had veritable _suitcases_, and that was before factoring in the invisibility granted by several layers of make-up. Quite frankly, he looked ill.

"Hello Blaine. Come inside." Kurt was smiling brightly (and genuinely), but there was something about him that seemed almost… defeated.

"I'm just about to serve dinner."

"_You _cooked it?"

Kurt shot him his _duh _expression. Blaine couldn't even begin to imagine how he'd go about a similar task.

"Who else would do it? It's nothing much, just a hotpot. Everyone's here, so I should probably give you the lowdown because it's quite complicated."

He turned to face him and gazed straight down into his eyes.

"The big man, that's my dad. We have the same eyes but the resemblance stops there. Hopefully we won't share the same balding pattern. The lady, that's my Dad's fiancée Carole."

He sniffed and paused.

"Are you wearing Jo Malone? Just a hint, Marc Jacobs is better. And cheaper."

Blaine coloured. He _had _been rather liberal with the spray bottle. He probably smelt like a grandmother.

"Anyway, back to the table. The tall, gangly, cultureless and probably-borderline-offensive idiot, that's Carole's son Finn. Soon to be my step-brother. He goes to McKinley too, he's in Glee with me. Take everything he says with a pinch of salt, he can be pretty tactless."

Just as Blaine opened his mouth to object at having been invited to a whole family dinner (or ask where the bathroom was so he could wash off at least some of the horrible pomegranate-noirness), he felt his hand being tugged. Hard. He lurched ungracefully into the kitchen/diner.

Take action, Blaine. NOW.

"Hi. I'm Blaine." He looked a fool, he could feel it.

"_I'm meant to do the introducing."_ It was little more than a hiss of air in his ear, but it was there. He had been _told_.

He shuffled his feet awkwardly before dignifying the other boy with an embarrassed "Sorry."

Kurt cleared his throat grandly. "Everyone, this is Blaine. He goes to Dalton Academy in Westerville and, apparently, never takes his clothes off."

Blaine turned a deep shade of red; damn his lack of time (and, if he was honest with himself, fashion sense). But looking across, he realised that Kurt had blushed too. Perhaps more so. Why?

"Not like that. I mean, I'm sure you take them off when you sleep and shower and stuff because otherwise it would be weird and impractical and –"

_Oh_, the unintentional euphemism. That old beast. Blaine could more than sympathise. Why did the English language lend itself so readily to inadvertent innuendo? That was an interesting question, he supposed it came out of the incredible flexibility and complexity of verb fo –

NO BLAINE. Linguistics textbooks are for later, sociability and complete non-nerdiness are for the (ever so slightly awkward) present.

"Kurt sweetie, I'm sure Blaine launders his clothes very frequently." That must be Carole. Thank god for her, whoever she was.

Glancing up, he saw that the large man in the baseball cap and denim jacket (Burt?) was silently chuckling at the head of the table. The gangly boy, meanwhile, seemed unable to focus on anything besides the mound of roast potatoes gracing the plate in front of him. They did look rather good. Very good. _Exceedingly good._

"_Blaine, pay attention."_ The hiss was back.

"Sorry, I was just admiring your potatoes."

But instead of scolding him further, Kurt seemed to glow. Blaine in turn felt himself smiling that he'd brought some amount of happiness to what was obviously a tough time for his friend.

"Anyway, this is my father, Burt." He raised his arm in the burly man's direction.

"Hello, Mr Hummel."

"Hi, Blaine. Hey, you look _exactly _like the kid in the picture in Kurt's locker."

Blaine was far too busy trying to remember _any _photo of the two of them to hear the hissed "_Dad_" that cut through the air like a javelin.

"And this is Carole."

She beamed up at Blaine.

"Hi Carole."

"And this is Finn."

Finally, the boy looked up. He could be quite hot if he wasn't quite so _ungainly_. And huh? Since when did he check out every guy he saw? STOP IT, BLAINE.

"Can we eat now?" Oh, so the creature _did _speak.

"Just let Blaine take a seat and we'll dig in." Carole was the voice of reason in this house, obviously.

Blaine quickly perched next to Kurt, across from Finn. Those potatoes did smell _so so so good_, and he quickly found himself weighing up whether it would be better to eat an acceptably minimal portion or the mound he really wanted. He eventually decided to opt for somewhere between Kurt's bird crumbs and Finn's Mount Everest. And, as expected, the food was every bit as tasty as it looked.

After a few moments of contented munching, Burt broke the silence.

"So Blaine, you live in Westerville?"

And so a conversation was sparked, and they continued in convivial conversation that spanned from the gear mechanisms in expensive motor vehicles to the interior finishes of said expensive motor vehicles. Burt nodded in approval every so often, and even Finn stopped munching away in order to get a word in.

Kurt, however, had completely zoned out. As, for that matter, had Carole. A break in conversation was all she needed to pounce, and pounce she did.

"So Blaine, tell me about your school. Private, obviously, but how do you like it?"

"It was hard at first but I like it a lot. It's got so many good facilities, great academics, and you might have heard somewhere that we're the first school in Ohio to adopt a zero tolerance anti-bullying policy. Or you might know the Chapel Choir? We've been on the radio a couple of times. And I'm in the Glee club, called The Warblers. We're going up against Kurt and Finn at Sectionals, actually."

Blaine hoped he'd sufficiently diverted attention away from himself onto the music. The competition between the two clubs would be pretty irresistible topics of conversation, surely?

Nope, trust Kurt to put him under scrutiny _yet again_.

"Blaine's their arranger and lead singer. _And_ he's the choirmaster and lead of The Dalton Chapel Choir, _and_ they'll be going to the World Choir Games in Beijing this year."

Burt and Carole sat back, obviously impressed.

But then.

"Where's Beijing?"

Finn's capacity to inhale food did not, apparently, extend to an ability to soak up information.

Blaine answered before he could stop himself. A self-slap was well and truly in order.

"It's in China, the People's Republic of China, the one-party state established on October 1st 1949 by Mao Zedong? Like, the capital city of the most populous country in the world? Formerly known as Peking? 2008 Olympics? The Forbidden City? Tiananmen Square? The Botanical Gardens?"

Blaine managed to stop himself before he recited the entirety of the essay he'd written on Beijing while still at St. Kenny's. Quite often, he had realised, having a memory like a sponge could make a person appear an obsessive weirdo. Judging from the flabbergasted Hummel-Hudson expressions, this was one of those times.

Finn slowly sat back, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Okay, okay smart dude. No need to whip out the Senior AP Geography factoids when I'm only a junior."

"Blaine is a sophomore, Finn. And I'm pretty sure most three year olds could tell you where Beijing is." Kurt looked over at Blaine, smiling. "They probably wouldn't know about the botanical gardens, though."

Finn's dumbstruck expression caused Blaine to decide against mentioning that he had already completed the entire Senior AP Geography syllabus, thanks entirely to the relentless enthusiasm (nagging) of one Dr. Greene.

A gruff voice cut through the awkward silence that follows one conversation and precedes another.

"So Blaine, you like football?"

Ah, home turf. He quickly spouted some theories he'd been developing, suggesting that the Buckeyes could _maybe _beat the Wolverines if they so much as switched… blah blah blah… blah. At least he didn't have to think much; honing his football strategies was the only way he'd found to relax his ever-whirring brain, so he could pretty much go on autopilot.

Casting his eyes around the table as his motormouth continued at full whack, he noticed that Kurt looked bored while Burt and Finn were nodding along excitedly. At least some people seemed impressed.

"I tell you kid, you got some good ideas there. You should manage the Buckeyes one day."

"Pffffft, as if that'd go down well _here_." Ah, Kurt had rejoined the land of conviviality.

"What, Kurt? Blaine here's got some good ideas," Burt replied, evidently missing what Kurt was saying.

There was a silence as the boy looked guiltily down at his plate. He was obviously concerned that he'd put Blaine in this position, but really? Hadn't they figured it out yet? It had to be done now, anyway. They weren't going to hate him, not when they were so close to _Kurt_.

"Oh, I think Kurt's saying that it probably wouldn't go down so well because I'm gay."

Finn's mouth hung open, revealing a ton of half-mashed lamb and potato. Tasty.

"_Dude_, are you sure? Like, you like football. You know more about it than I do."

"I will re-evaluate and get back to you, Finn. I wasn't aware that a love for football and preference for guys were mutually exclusive. Sorry about the confusion."

Kurt, Burt and Carole snorted as Finn grew yet more perplexed.

"Oh Finn. Finn, Finn, Finn," Kurt began tiredly, "When will you learn that not every gay is as fabulous as me?"

It was safe.

Blaine pouted and adopted an affected gesture. "I'm _totally _fabulous, sweetcheeks."

Burt's hysterical laughter drew attention away from Kurt's intense blush.

* * *

><p>After his offer to clear the dishes was quickly and quietly declined by Carole, Blaine found himself being dragged upstairs to Kurt's room.<p>

A muffled "Door stays open" emanated from the living room as they climbed the stairs. Kurt's palm became sweaty and Blaine could feel his face reddening more than before: did Burt really think he was _like that_? _Really_? As soon as they'd got into the room (and the door had been half-closed), Kurt turned and looked Blaine straight in the eyes.

But, to Blaine's surprise, it wasn't about anything Burt had said.

"You're not cross with me are you?" It was little louder a whisper, more tentative than anything he'd heard Kurt say before.

"Ummm, no, why would I be?" Blaine suspected his expression bore more than a passing resemblance to Finn's 'Beijing Face'.

"I basically outed you at our dinner table. I think we both knew they wouldn't care, but it wasn't my job to do it and I'm sorry. I'm against outing anyone, it's not who I am."

They both knew that Kurt wasn't really referring to Blaine.

There was a silence before Blaine decided to speak once more. Kurt shivered as Blaine took hold of two pale hands.

"Kurt," he began softly, staring deep into those blue-green eyes, "Are you okay? Really, deep inside? You look exhausted."

And then, suddenly, the façade peeled off as if it were made of melted wax, drip-dripping to the ground in a flood of tears. Thankfully, Blaine was there to catch him in the hug he wished he'd had during his moment of need. The Orrin Cuddle, that's what it was. Not that Kurt would ever know that.

"Ssssshhh come here, come here, it'll be okay."

And then, against his shoulder, it came out in a single sob.

"He threatened to kill me. And then I told and Principal Sue expelled him so I thought it was all okay so I didn't really say anything but now she's resigned and he's coming back and I can't do anything about it and, well, I guess I'm just really _really _scared."

Oh god. Ohgodohgod. Why hadn't Kurt mentioned any of this? Had he really been storing all this inside him, all this fear day in day out?If Blaine was to lose him too, the pain, the grief, the _guilt_ – no, the thought was just too much to contemplate.

Blaine ended up gripping him closer, as close as he could get, cradling Kurt's head in one of his hands and stroking his hair.

"Kurt, we've got to do something about this. I know you don't want to out him or anything but he's dangerous, you can't underplay _a death threat_because that's what that was, that's the bare bones of it, even if the faculty didn't think so."

He could feel Kurt nodding slowly against neck.

"Has he hurt you physically?"

"Just shoving, you know, into lockers. Him and his meathead friends."

And yes, Blaine did know. All too well.

"You should get yourself checked out by an osteopath; that kind of repeated injury can really mess up your spine if you're not careful."

Kurt drew back slightly and looked at him questioningly with big, blue eyes.

And that moment, that singular moment when past tragedy met present torment, was when Blaine came closest to telling Kurt everything without telling him anything at all.

But Kurt spoke before he could give anything away.

"You won't tell anyone, will you? How I'm scared? I don't want my dad to find out, he's had enough strain on his heart already."

"No, I won't say anything. But that doesn't stop me from thinking that you should."

Kurt ran his toes across his beige carpet.

"Maybe."

"Kurt." It was as firm as Blaine had ever been with his friend. Kurt seemed startled, freezing his gaze into Blaine's own line of sight.

A pause.

Then, in a sudden burst of energy, Kurt reached below his bed and retrieved a pile of swatches.

"Anyway, what do you think of this nuptial russet and cognac colour scheme? I'm going for something fun but mature, classy but understated. I'm in love with this _gold_."

Blaine knowingly took the bait. The conversation needed lightening, and Karofsky couldn't _really _mean it, could he? People who were going to kill generally just did it, right? He shuddered before snapping back into the conversation.

Décor, shit, it was hardly his strong point. What the fuck was cognac anyway? Gush, Blaine, gush away.

"I just love it all, I'm so bummed I can't see it in the flesh. Stupid shitty Choir Champs. We're uncontested anyway, so stupid. There is _literally _no point in us even showing up."

Kurt beamed momentarily, before a single brushstroke of watercolour sadness washed over his face.

"I just really wish you could be there." At this Kurt seemed to drift off, looking as if he was imagining something really nice. He was probably evaluating the relative merits of maroon against russet or something; it was a hard choice after all.

Anyway, it didn't last long. "Oh Blaine, it's so refreshing to know someone who finally understands that cognac can be a _colour_."

Blaine found himself winking at his friend. Moron. "Right? And a great colour it is, too."

"Well, I did choose it."

A pause as Blaine's gaze met Kurt's once more.

Staring deep into those blue eyes, Blaine summoned the courage to say exactly what he was thinking.

"Kurt, you need to fix this."

He wasn't talking about the wedding décor.

* * *

><p>The following days brought a whirlwind of texts (<em>I'm so excited, I'm thinking understated suit, black everything, very James Bond<em>), picture messages (_Do you prefer gold plates or white plates with gold edging?_) and emails (_Are you sure you can't make it? I'm sad that you'll be missing out on my dad's ape dance_).

But Blaine couldn't think of anything beyond Kurt's safety. He was obsessively checking on him _all the time_, thinking about whether he could ever be truly safe in that hellhole of a school. Should he text Mercedes and let her know? But if she hadn't been told, there would be a reason for it, and wasn't it Kurt's prerogative to tell her anyway?

And what about that Berry girl? His mouse had hovered over 'Add Friend' for a total of at least thirty minutes, but he'd chickened out each and every time. She probably didn't even know who he was.

He'd even considered anonymously contacting the returning Principal, Figgins was it? But he'd thought better of that idea as soon as he'd remembered how ineffective the faculty at Westerville had been when he'd raised concerns about Orrin, and now how hopelessly the McKinley School Board had dealt with Kurt. People like them just didn't care.

But, he reflected, people like Burt and Carole definitely did.

And then it dawned on him.

And **no**, of course that prospectus that had come through the door had nothing at all to do with Blaine and his solo trip to Lima one rainy evening after a choir competition. What a **coincidence** that the Hummels should all be out of the house when that thick envelope arrived, complete with fees information, payment schemes and information about choral scholarships. A wedding, was that where they were? Why would he have any familiarity with the Hummel social schedule?

But somehow, when Kurt's name flashed up on his screen the very next day, he knew. He smiled broadly into the phone, greeting his friend and preparing himself for success – he'd finally done something _right_, he'd rescued Kurt from something that was somehow appalling and monotonous at the same time.

But the smile vanished as soon as Kurt greeted him. His 'hello' sounded totally defeated and miserable, and the words that Blaine had eagerly anticipated for several days were delivered with a heavy world-weariness that he'd never before heard from the other boy.

"I'm transferring to Dalton, effective immediately. Dad and Carole are using their honeymoon money to pay the tuition. I'm sorry I didn't ask you beforehand, but I honestly didn't know it was an option until about three hours ago. I didn't even know they knew that much about Dalton, what would have made them think of it? We didn't even talk about it that much when you came round."

Blaine really didn't know what to say, so he went with his old failsafe: changing the subject.

"But that's great, you'll be with me. You'll be safe."

"I'm excited for a new start and the academic challenge and all, but I'll miss my friends _so much_, Blaine. It feels like I'm the one being punished for being bullied, I kind of feel like I've given in to them-"

"You haven't, I promise."

"And I won't be at Sectionals, I'll have to give up Glee and everything."

"Wait, what?"

"Well I'm hardly good enough for you, and haven't you already done all the arrangements anyway?"

"Shut up, you're definitely good enough. Especially as you'll more than likely impress the choirmaster so much you'll get a scholarship."

"Blaine, don't patronise me."

"I'm not, you deserve it. We need a countertenor so badly, and you can hit _F5_. Not many people can do that, certainly no one at Dalton."

"But what about the arrangements? Haven't you done them already?"

Well technically he kind of had, but Kurt didn't need to know that.

"Ummm, I'm still working on them."

Kurt laughed. _Laughed._

"_Blaine_! I suppose it'll be good for you to have someone to organise you! I am a strict disciplinarian."

"Errr okay."

Awkward silence.

"Anyway, I'll see you on Monday. Don't buy any of the books yet, we'll wait until the booklist comes through and you can have some of my old ones."

"But I'm a grade ahead of you."

SHIT.

"Umm yeah, whatever. I just bought them for future reference but you can borrow them for now."

"Blaine?"

Kurt sounded doubtful.

"Yeah, gotta go. I have choir."

"But it's a Saturday."

"Yeah. Bye Kurt."

"Bye Blaine."

It'd be okay, right? Kurt didn't have to know he was already taking some senior classes. But he'd probably find out, especially as Blaine was often brought in to help out in junior math. DAMN. He'd probably think he was a massive nerd or freak or something and hate him.

FUCKSHITFUCK.

Oh well, nothing could be done now. Maybe Kurt would be in another class, maybe Blaine would be ill every math lesson.

But it didn't really matter, not really.

The most important thing was that Kurt was safe.

* * *

><p><strong>AN Sorry once again for slowness updating – the last few weeks of term are always super hectic and I had four massive papers to submit. It was one amazing megafun party, let me tell you.  
><strong>

**Anyway, favourite/ alert/ review/ deck the halls/ feed the world, and I'll be back soon :)**

**Thanks for all your support :)**


	16. A New Direction

**Chapter 16: A New Direction**

The weekend was mostly consumed with telephone calls to Kurt. Blaine spent hours running through the uniform, the structure of the day, the lunch menus, the teachers, everything he could think of to make it as easy as possible for Kurt to settle in. It had been a difficult adjustment even for him, and he had run from a place where he wouldn't be leaving anything behind. Kurt, on the other hand, had been pushed out, suddenly dropping his friends, his Glee club, everything, all without saying a proper goodbye. Blaine could scarcely imagine what it'd be like to be in his shoes.

As if that wasn't hard enough, it was all a massive nightmare logistics-wise. The transition process for transfer students usually took place over a couple of weeks, with information about uniforms and book lists and health forms and protocols and parking passes filtering gradually into mailboxes until a fully-fledged Dalton boy was ready to climb those stone steps for the very first time. It was always seamless, always slick, because that was just the way it worked for the normal, run-of-the-mill transfer student who'd usually come from a similar school elsewhere, moving to Westerville because Daddy or Mommy (or both) had been transferred to Columbus with many months' notice.

But Kurt wasn't a run-of-the-mill transfer student.

And he certainly didn't have months to become acquainted with a Dalton pen friend, receive guided tours of the campus or pre-purchase a uniform.

He had two days. Two days to sort it all out.

Two days_ on the weekend_.

Blaine knew he'd have to help as much as possible.

* * *

><p>In the end, the uniform was simple enough. Blaine put a call in to Bob in the Porters' Lodge and a courier was dispatched straight from Dalton to the Hummel residence, carrying with him a full uniform just in time for Kurt to make some small but vital sartorial adjustments.<p>

The books weren't too much of a problem either. After a long telephone call which largely consisted of Kurt reciting the junior book list, it emerged that Blaine mysteriously owned every one of the Geography, Math, Music Theory and Literature books required for junior year. Funny that. At least Kurt wouldn't be behind in his classes while he waited for Amazon to fulfil his delivery order. By four o'clock on Sunday, Blaine had already put all of the books into a large cardboard box, chucking in his old copy of _Beginners' Italian _for good measure in case Kurt opted to take up a second language via the Dalton peer tutoring system.

After what he hoped was a final reassuring phone call to his friend, Blaine threw himself back onto his bed and fell asleep in his glasses, jeans and t-shirt. It couldn't be good to be this exhausted before the week had even begun.

* * *

><p>Blaine smiled as soon as he saw the Navigator make its way up Dalton's gravel drive. Kurt was finally safe from the locker throws and dumpster dives, safe from <em>what could have been<em>. And, he noted as soon as he spotted the hippo brooch adorning his friend's lapel, _Kurt_ had been preserved. He hadn't lost any part of himself to the bullies; every last bit of him was had been saved, probably in the nick of time. But there was no question that that badge would be a bad move at Dalton. Oh well, Kurt would learn to fit in soon enough.

The boy approached, his blue eyes locking directly into Blaine's gaze.

"So, I guess I'm a Dalton boy now."

He threw his head back and struck a jaunty pose as if he'd just reached the end of a runway. Every day was, after all, an opportunity for fashion. Yes, it'd probably take him a quite a while to settle in…

Blaine's eyes flickered downwards involuntarily, before drifting upwards again. That blazer really was exquisitely tailored.

"You, Kurt Hummel, have achieved the impossible: the uniform actually looks _good_ on you." Blaine threw him a cheeky grin, surprised to hear that there was a certain _swagger _to his voice. Where had _that _come from?

At least he wasn't rambling.

"Now, I have my books in my trunk; you'll have to borrow the rest from seniors or whatever. Wanna help me carry the box to your locker? It's pretty heavy."

"Yeah, sure. Thank you so much, Blaine. I'll give them all back once my Amazon order comes through. You'll be needing them next year and I wouldn't want you buying them all over again."

Blaine shuffled awkwardly, instantly forgetting the bravado he'd displayed just moments before.

"Ummm, about that–"

"My itinerary tells me that I have to report to a certain Mrs. Hardwicke in the school office. Where's that?"

Oh god, Kurt was going to need all the help he could get.

"C'mon, I'll take you. It's right this way."

Kurt took hold of one side of the box and Blaine grabbed the other. They walked together across the gravel, up the stone steps and across the white marble of the Dalton Academy foyer. Before long, they were standing face to face with the imposing green door of the school office.

Blaine knocked twice.

"Come in."

Mrs. Hardwicke's face shrivelled into a vitriolic half-smile as soon as she saw who had entered.

"Ah, Mr. Anderson. Another 'choir conference' by any chance?"

She cackled quietly to herself.

He didn't take the bait.

"No, actually. I'm here with my friend Kurt, he's new today."

Only then did Mrs. Hardwicke cast her beady eyes in Kurt's direction. They darted their way down his body and then up again, before they settled on direct but slightly glazed eye contact.

"Mr. Hummel, I presume?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Right."

She sighed labouredly as she flicked through the papers on her desk.

"So, here's your schedule."

She passed him his timetable. It looked unbelievably complicated with all its rows and columns and arrows; Blaine imagined she'd made it deliberately incomprehensible as a way to temper her otherwise ungratifying and thankless existence.

Kurt cast his eyes over the page, taking it in as much as he could. He looked slightly quizzical as he met Mrs. Hardwicke's gaze once more.

"Uhh, do you not offer any Math at this school? Because I'm pretty sure I'll need it to get into college."

Mrs. Hardwicke looked up at him over her pince-nez as if he was the stupidest creature ever to roam the earth.

"Ah, why yes we do Mr. Hummel. I just need you to be assessed so we can set you at the correct academic level within your year group. If you fall short of the expected standard, you may have to attend some extra lunchtime sessions to catch up with the Dalton pace."

Kurt appeared stupefied with terror. Blaine wanted nothing more than to reach across and calm his friend, but Mrs. Hardwicke continued before he'd had the chance to move an inch.

"Conversely, you may be so good you'll be in the accelerated streams."

She paused, her lips curling upwards as if she'd thought of a particularly amusing joke.

"Who knows, perhaps you're a math whizz. Perhaps you'll eventually make it up to the accelerated AP class with dear Mr. Anderson here. We have a firm policy to 'stretch and challenge' our most able students, Mr. Hummel. There are only six students in Blaine's class at the moment, you really do have to be the very, _very best_."

Blaine felt like falling through the earth or being launched into outer space or both; _anything _to get away from that depressing little office. He could feel Kurt's dumbfounded stare boring its way through his rapidly reddening cheek.

"Umm, Blaine?"

Blaine shot him an apologetic grimace. But Kurt seemed kind of… impressed. That was odd. Mrs. Hardwicke continued regardless, ignorant of the silent conversation that was going on between the two friends.

"And here are your locker key, your student ID and your Dalton homework planner. I just need to sign you up for a games group and then you'll be free to go."

She reached for the appropriate folder.

"Every Wednesday afternoon is off-timetable for compulsory sports, so you'll need to join a group. Do you want to do polo, swimming, rugby, soccer, fencing or lacrosse?"

Kurt failed to hide his grimace. "I've never played any of those before. Well, I can swim sort of, but…" His voice tailed off.

She shot him a glare over her glasses: if there was one thing she hated as much as breaches of protocol, it was indecision.

"Swimming it is, then. Mr. Anderson is in that class, too; you'll be swim buddies."

She shot them both a pruney, saccharine grin as Kurt opened his mouth in silent protest. But it was Blaine who had paled, it was Blaine who wanted the ground to swallow him up right at that second.

Why was everything going wrong?

* * *

><p>As it turned out, Kurt's transcripts and the five minute verbal assessment proved that he was actually very good at Math, good enough to be immediately placed in the upper sets of the junior classes. That meant that he'd be starting the day with a bit of Pre-Calculus. Oh joy. It didn't stop him from feeling <em>incredibly <em>relieved, though.

Blaine had shared in his Kurt's joy until he'd looked at his own schedule during homeroom and realised that he was due to help out in... yep, Pre-Calculus. Oh shit. He wasn't as nervous as he'd been that morning, especially as Kurt now knew that he was kind of good at academic stuff and hadn't yet become hateful or enraged. Having said that, knowing about things was often completely different from actually _seeing_ them in the flesh, and Blaine was worried about how Kurt would react to his presence in the classroom.

But there'd be no going back now.

Dr. Platt smiled welcomingly through his thick brown beard as soon as he saw Blaine hovering at the classroom door. A rather shifty looking Kurt was standing beside the teacher's desk, no doubt waiting to be allocated a seat. Blaine followed his friend's line of sight down to the floor. Ah, _that_ went a great way to explaining Kurt's disposition: Dr. Platt _still_ hadn't realised that socks and sandals didn't ever make for a good combination. Poor man. And poor, poor Kurt.

"Ah, good morning Blaine," came the soft, slightly lisping voice of the teacher. Everyone in the classroom immediately fell silent out of respect for the man; he was certainly more than a little loopy, but no one could deny that he really did know his stuff. "Class, this is Blaine. For those of us who are new to the school, or peculiarly inattentive, the Dalton Mathematics Department has introduced a system whereby students from the AP class will occasionally come and help out in other groups. It is often beneficial, especially in subjects such as this, to have a student assistant on hand. After all, there isn't ever just one way of conveying the art and thrill of Calculus, and everyone responds differently to different teaching methods."

He turned to Blaine.

"Blaine, if you could just go and fetch an extra chair from next door. You can pull a seat up next to Mr. Hummel here. He's new today, so just get him adjusted to the Dalton method and help where necessary."

Blaine shot yet another apologetic glance at Kurt, expecting to receive an equally awkward look in return.

What came instead was a _beaming _smile. Huh?

Before long, they were sat shoulder to shoulder around the tiny single desk watching a particularly excited Dr. Platt deliver a lecture on polynomials. Despite the engaging teaching, Blaine found himself drifting off about ten minutes in; dealing with the insanity of Calculus BC kind of made everything else seem a piece of cake. Why couldn't the class just move onto the textbook already, then he'd actually be able to _do _something and be useful? YAWN. He started to run through the set-list for sectionals. The Warblers' _first ever _Sectionals. It was on the 26th, right? 26th? ! That was _Friday_. Oh. God. That meant there'd be rehearsals every day, oh god oh god. More tiredness, more work, more stre–

He was suddenly lurched back into reality when Dr. Platt tripped over the bin. It tended to happen each time he got carried away with a particularly long algebraic expression.

"Well I certainly don't remember that trash can being there! Who put it there while I was teaching? Maybe it was one of the magical math pixies who live in the cupboard. Yes, yes, we shall blame them."

He winked knowingly at the class. He was mad as a hatter, battier than a fruitcake, but his lessons were among the best and most entertaining at Dalton.

Blaine found himself laughing heartily, his boredom, worries and stresses all vanishing instantaneously. He looked over at Kurt who was giggling happily along with the rest of the class (as well as Dr. Platt himself). The sight only served to make him even happier.

They moved onto book work soon afterwards. Blaine was unsurprised to find that Kurt was already able to do most of the questions without any prompting at all, and he only ever needed a little help with those he found more difficult. There was no question that he was an able student, already well-adjusted to the fast pace of the Dalton top set. From time to time Blaine would lean across Kurt to check on his answers. Each time, the two of them would come into contact, Kurt's warm body pressing against Blaine's cold one through their layers of uniform. It was comforting in a kind of peculiar way.

Yes, Blaine decided, it was a good thing he'd got Kurt here. Maybe even a _great _thing. Because Kurt was definitely an academic at heart; he _liked _learning and lessons and academics, just as Blaine did. He needed this.

Dalton was so much more than an escape hatch.

* * *

><p>"So," began a rather frantic Blaine as Kurt drew up alongside him in the corridor, "You ready to become a bona-fide Warbler?" He was rushing from History, Kurt from Geography. Both were headed to the choir room for the mid-afternoon meeting.<p>

"I guess so. I mean, I'll miss the New Directions terribly, but I'm ready for a new challenge."

"Well, you'll be the only person in that room ever to have competed in a Sectionals competition, in the Show Choir stakes anyway. We can use your advice."

They reached the steps leading to the choir room doors shortly afterwards.

"Okay Kurt, just wait out here and I'll fetch you when we're ready. It's tradition."

He gave what he hoped was a reassuring wink.

"See you in a second."

With that he flicked the doors open with a flourish, and was immediately greeted by the Warblers seated inside.

Wes whacked the gavel on its mahogany block to bring the room to order.

"Gentlemen, thank you for arriving promptly. As you know, we have our first Sectionals show choir competition this coming Friday. We'll be finalising our set list later on in this meeting, but we must first welcome our newest Warbler, Kurt Hummel. He is a countertenor, and has previous experience of competition on the Show Choir Circuit with the McKinley High 'New Directions', who also happen to be our rivals. Warbler Blaine has already assured me of his vocal ability and I'm sure everyone will agree that wasting valuable rehearsal time on auditioning such an experienced new member will not be conducive to our bid to win the competition. All in favour of having Kurt enter without an audition?"

Everyone raised their hand.

Wes whacked the gavel.

"Decided. Right, one more thing to address. As we all know (and as hard as it is to believe), our current Novitiate Warbler is Blaine. So, are we happy for Blaine to hand over Pavarotti as per tradition, or is it more appropriate for Nick and Jeff to do the honours considering they have been the ones to actually look after him?"

Nick didn't hesitate. "Blaine should do it."

Jeff nodded eagerly.

To Blaine's intense relief, no one mentioned why Pavarotti had not been entrusted into his care. He himself had only just found out that The Warblers had held a clandestine meeting shortly after his arrival at Dalton, in which a unanimous vote had decided that Blaine was emotionally incapable of caring for the tiny bird. These guys currently sat around him, particularly Wes and David, were the closest to knowing that the Blaine with the perfect GPA and musical talent was not the inadequate coward who truly sat within that dark blue blazer. Not that they had realised it. Yet.

"Decided. Blaine, will you fetch Kurt? We're ready to discuss set lists and he should be here with us."

Blaine snapped out of his reverie.

"Yeah… Sure."

He strolled across to the doors and whipped them open. Kurt sauntered inside.

* * *

><p>Blaine could tell that the meeting hadn't gone too well from the downcast look in Kurt's eyes. <em>He'd <em>found the jokes about the cat rescue and the coal mine funny, but he could also appreciate that Kurt had a very dry sense of humour that wouldn't necessarily tally with the idiosyncratic banter usually banded about between The Warblers. It must have been hard for Kurt to have had his ideas dismissed like that, perhaps frustrating too; he was, after all, greatly more experienced than everyone else put together, he must know _something_.

Having said that, here was no way they'd The Warblers would be doing _Rio_. Just. No. It would be traumatic to listen to and he'd have to arrange it and hear it over and over in his head and… Well, it didn't bear thinking about. It had been quite a cute sugge –

Blaine felt his stomach drop as he saw Kurt descending the grand staircase. He had immediately regretted not chasing after the boy straight after the meeting, but he hadn't wanted to make Kurt late for Monsieur Rachin's Honors French class. Blaine had lost count of the number of times he'd been reprimanded by that bastard, and he didn't even take French.

Oh well, better late than never.

"I saw that Glee club was hard for you today, seeing your ideas shot down like that."

"It's just a different energy in there. Not better or worse, just something I'll have to get used to."

He looked so _defeated_. Maybe if he had something else to think about, maybe if… Ah! His mouth moved before he'd really given the implications of his plan too much thought.

"Well we recognise that, and we have a tradition at this school of rewarding a student with a good attitude, so we'd like to invite you to audition for a solo."

"For sectionals?"

Why not? Kurt should have an opportunity just like everyone else.

He nodded. "For sectionals. Sing something good."

Blaine flashed Kurt his best smile before turning to head to his car. It wasn't really his place to offer this, but Wes couldn't really fire his arranger. No, Blaine had the upper hand here; he deserved _something _in return for all those hou –

"And Blaine?"

He snapped back into reality, turning back to see Kurt looking smaller than ever. His downcast eyes were set firmly on the white marble floor, and his hands twisted nervously in front of his body. It made for a stark contrast with the Kurt he'd seen so happy in Pre-Calc earlier on.

"Yes?"

Kurt's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. It would have been comical if Blaine hadn't been so sure that something else was going on.

"It's nothing."

Blaine gave a small smile of reassurance. He hadn't really expected Kurt to tell him right away; _he _certainly wouldn't have been giving anything away had the situations been reversed.

"It might make it better if you talk about it."

Not following your own advice didn't necessarily weaken your case, right?

"C'mon, let's go over here." He grabbed Kurt's arm and moved them under the curve of the stairs in the hope of getting at least the illusion of a little privacy.

Kurt took a deep breath as his eyes flickered down to the floor, turning a deep shade of red. Blaine didn't loosen his grip.

"Honestly, I'm just missing the New Directions."

Kurt was still avoiding eye contact. He was clearly a terrible liar.

"There's something else." Blaine said it as softly as possible, worried that Kurt would dart at any second. But instead of running, Kurt looked up at him, probably surprised that Blaine of all people had picked up on it.

"You'll think I'm really pathetic." His voice was practically silent, almost boyish.

"No I won't, I promise."

A pause. Kurt was now looking straight at him.

"Umm, yeah, well, you know my Kristin Lora hippo brooch?"

Blaine's eyes flicked downwards towards the right lapel where the badge… Wait, where had it gone? It might be in lost propert –

"Well, Monsieur Rachin confiscated it. When I went to collect it at the end of the lesson, he took it right out of the drawer and stamped on it. The damage is irreparable, and it was a one-off piece and -"

That was what all this was about? That was _it_? Brooches weren't even in the uniform code; Kurt should have expected to have been picked up on it. In truth, he couldn't really understand why he was so upset about it; it _was _only a badge, after all. There were bigger problems in the world.

"Don't worry about it. Just toe the line next time, okay? You'll fit in just fine."

He reached out to give Kurt's lapel a friendly tug.

"C'mon, I'll walk you to the parking lot. But first I need you to take a certain yellow friend off my hands."

Kurt shot him a small smile, which he felt himself return with a wide beam.

Everything was going to be okay.

* * *

><p><strong>AN Merry Christmas! I hope you all had a great December 25th. I had a lovely day with my family – I won at Scrabble five times yeaaaaah! Hope you enjoyed this chapter – it is part of a longer mini-plot, so I'm sorry if this felt a bit fillery. And sorry there's no elephant epigraph, I promise there will be another one coming up soon:)**

**Sidenote: the maths teacher is based on my favourite teacher at school who regularly tripped over the bin because it was always positioned in front of the white board. He is Dr. Platt in everything but name. He even covered every wall in his house in graph paper so that he could immediately draw any graph that sprung to mind. I thought this was a joke but after attending an end-of-year barbeque held for everyone in my class, I can attest that it was completely true! LEGEND.**

**Two more things: firstly, I want to say a HUGE thank you to SilverWhiteDragon, who has been patiently elucidating the US education system for me. Thanks for the detail of your answers and for saving me from my ignorance! Secondly, I wanted to thank ImperialDarkness for your thoughtful comments – I usually reply to reviews via PM but you have turned that feature off, so I just wanted to let you know that your words meant a lot to me.**

**Oh, a third thing: I've had two people feel slightly confused by the end of Chapter 9 and what it says about the characters' political allegiances. This is probably because two of my characters share the same name so it inevitably gets a bit convoluted! So: Michael Sr. is a Republican, but briefly pledged his support for the Democratic candidate to spite Michael Jr.'s decision to represent Blaine in the trial. Michael Sr. came back to support Michael Jr.'s senatorial bid because Michael Jr. started following his orders again. Michael Jr. has been an unwavering Republican and has not ever supported the Democrats. Unlike his father and grandfather, Blaine has found that his views are best represented by the Democratic Party. Hope that explains it!**

**Bye for now. Thanks once again for your continued support :) **


	17. Crush

**Chapter 17: Crush**

_Now elephants break whatever they roll up in their trunks, and whatever they tread upon is crushed as it were by the fall of a vast building._

- Harley MS 3244, British Library, Euston Road, London

* * *

><p>Tuesday, Kurt wore brown shoes to school. <em>Brown<em>. With cream stitching. He had been sent to Mrs. Hardwicke pretty early in the day, emerging from her office several minutes later sporting an uber-bitch face that was completely at odds with the unexciting regulation black shoes that dangled by their laces from his hand.

Several hours later, he was back there again having been caught wearing a small bird pin in his lapel.

And then again when it was discovered that the buttons on his shirt were 3mm smaller in diameter than those of the regulation Dalton uniform. He would have probably gotten away with that one had he not been overheard telling Blaine about the many personal risks he would take in the name of the 'sacred' Valentino.

That, along with the vague memory of a dropped mark in a Calculus test, was all Blaine really remembered of Tuesday as he sat at his desk that night. He was consumed by the whirlwind of Dalton, with the steadily building tower of homework and the approach of Friday's sectionals both weighing heavily on his mind. The Warblers hadn't even finalised their soloist, let alone decided on a set list. He'd probably be up all night Wednesday redoing all the arrangements and even then it probably wasn't going to be enough to beat the New Directions. And he had some dreadful Italian oral coming up, not to mention several History and Geometry tests and, most loathsome of all, three Geography essays.

And then there was Kurt. Blaine worried whether he was truly happy at Dalton, whether he was ever going to be able to truly fit in. The other boys, he'd observed, regarded Kurt with a mixture of respect, confusion and amusement. Sure, he got high fives in the corridor and was quickly making a name for himself by breaking every uniform rule going, but this popularity was coupled with the inevitable underlying suspicion that comes whenever a person chooses to be so 'out there'. Why was he so intent on standing out? Especially after everything that had happened? Blaine just couldn't understand it. It would be so much easier for Kurt if he just stuck to the rules like everyone else. Maybe he'd have to have a word, just to tell him tha –

Damn, distracted again. Blaine peered back down at his textbook and concluded that this particular case study on the Ukrainian Energy Mix was probably the most boring thing he'd ever read. And that was saying a lot, considering that Blaine spent precisely 86% of his school day bored out of his mind. And he'd read _The Leviathan_, cover to cover. He was an expert in boredom. If he was a superhero, his name would be Mind Crush or Captain Boredom or Boredman or The Silver Surfbored or The Incred –

FOCUS.

Damn. _Why_ was his concentration span always inversely proportional to the quantity of work piled up on his desk?

At some point along the line (specifically the section on 'The Use of Natural Gas in The Ukraine'), Blaine fell asleep at his desk. He woke up at 3AM with an aching neck, a sore back and, best of all, lines of his own handwriting imprinted across his face. After somehow summoning the energy to strip off his uniform, he climbed into bed. He was asleep in seconds.

* * *

><p>The next thing he knew it was 7.30 AM. Shit. He ran downstairs, shoved a croissant into his mouth (huh? Why had his mom left him <em>croissants<em>?) and flung his ancient 'B.M.A.' Collège Saint Kentigern swim kit bag into the car trunk along with a massive folder of manuscripts and his mini library of textbooks. Late _again_. Shit fuck fuck. One more late mark and he'd be right in line for a detention - normally he wouldn't care too much, but he just didn't have _time _for one right now. And he _certainly _didn't want to give Hardwicke the satisfaction of seeing him cooped up after school. Damn it.

Too late and too busy for homeroom, Blaine signed in at the office just as the Dalton bell began to chime. Mrs Hardwicke failed to hide her disappointment as her fingers uncurled from the blank detention slip she had been coveting in her bony claws, and her face shrivelled up into a dissatisfied scowl. Blaine grinned widely in his victory.

But from then on in, Blaine's morning just sped up even more until it became a blur of dimly remembered meetings, classes, pigeonhole visits and strange looks from Wes (did he have toothpaste around his mouth or something?). After stuffing his packed lunch into his mouth over his open Geometry revision and sitting a test he'd missed in the second half of his lunchbreak, he was just about done for the day.

But the day wasn't done with him.

Wednesday afternoon. Games. Shit. He completely did not have the energy.

After retrieving his kit bag from his trunk, Blaine made his way to the pool. He headed to his usual changing spot beside Wes, who shot him the same weird little smiles he had been all day. It was probably because he hadn't had time to talk to him today. Or perhaps it was his sorrow at the fact that Blaine had to change in a specific spot because as accepting as the other guys were, pool changing rooms were a whole new level of awkward. But he didn't usually act like this; he certainly hadn't last week or the week before or... Oh, Sectionals. Yeah, it was probably that.

Blaine shrugged off his blazer and undid his tie, carefully hanging them up on the pegs so as to avoid creasing them. Just as he began to unbutton his shirt, Kurt edged in through the changing room doors.

Without missing a beat, Wes beckoned him over to their corner. Kurt's eyes flicked over David, then Wes, then Blaine, visible relief passing over his rapidly reddening face. As he got closer to Wes, Blaine just about caught a quiet whisper of, "Oh my God, I didn't realise there'd be _communal _changing. Thank God I already have my trunks on and can make a quick exit, I wouldn't want people to see my pallid complexion and think that Casper the Ghost had entered the building."

Poor Kurt. Blaine could fully understand it; changing rooms were awkward places as it was, and that was without factoring in the whole gay thing.

A clatter as the door burst open once again.

Yep, David had arrived.

But instead of becoming his usual hyperactive swimming-pool self, he walked straight towards the now-shirtless Blaine, catching him in a massive hug and stroking his hair.

What. The. Actual. Fuck?

"Are you okay? I haven't seen you all day."

The customary chatter of the changing room had dropped into complete and untarnished quiet. Blaine could hear nothing but David's breathing and the dim buzz of the extractor fan.

"What? Why wouldn't I be?"

David's hug went limp.

Blaine could feel Kurt's eyes on him, and Wes's, and those of everyone else in the changing room.

Silence.

And then, like a roar in a cave, it came.

"It's November 24th, Blaine."

His heart dropped to his feet.

How could he have forgotten, how?

One year.

One whole year since he'd lost Orrin.

One year since he'd lost himself.

And everyone was looking, _everyone_. To his sightless mind, the sound of the extractor fan may well have been a thundering storm, the short breaths of the other boys waves crashing on a rock.

And through the tears that filled his eyes but refused to fall, he saw the sad gaze of Kurt.

He was sure that it was the sad gaze of a shattered illusion, the tragedy of the exposure of truth.

And that just made it a million times worse.

Blaine's hand involuntarily grasped the silver elephant that hung around his neck as his breath hitched. He couldn't move to put his clothes on, but he certainly didn't want people to _see _it. And it usually helped him, it usually calmed him down. He closed his eyes and let his fingers feel out that victorious trunk, those four sturdy legs and those familiar hallmarked footprints.

It didn't help.

So he ran.

Pushing open the changing room door, he ran out into the swimming pool foyer and out towards the main entrance. Somewhere between two throbs of his head, he heard the changing room door open once again. Why couldn't they see that he just wanted to be alone?

"ANDERSON, how DARE you ditch _MY _cla–." The deep bass voice of Coach Wheeler came too late, imprisoned inside the pool foyer by the closing automatic doors.

Blaine hissed as the warm air from inside vanished, shivering as his bare chest was exposed to the full chill of the late November air.

He halted for a second, trying to think above the cacophony in his head and the pounding of his heart.

Car. He'd go to his car. He'd be safe there, no one could chase him or hurt him or _find _him if he drove to that patch of ground between the trees. He darted into the main school building, heading through it to reach the parking lot.

But then, in a brief moment of terrifying lucidity, he realised that it wasn't the best idea. Namely because his keys were in his blazer.

His blazer that was in the changing room.

And he was _shirtless _in the main building.

Oh God.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Blaine. Le foyer, ce n'est pas l'Algarve. On ne peut pas se bronzer ici."

Ohgodohgod. _Of course _Monsieur Rachin would choose that moment to come down the stairs.

Blaine just ran. Again. He couldn't even hear anything, let alone see.

But he could definitely feel.

He could feel his stomach turning.

His head pounding.

His legs aching.

His arm. His arm that was being grabbed between his elbow and shoulder.

"You, you will come with me."

And then he sobbed and couldn't think any more.

* * *

><p>The sight that greeted Blaine when he opened his eyes was probably the strangest of all the things he had ever witnessed.<p>

The Principal was seated behind his grand mahogany desk.

Rachin was standing to the right of the desk.

Wes was hovering at the left.

And Blaine realised that he was still shirtless.

A few beats of silence passed before the Principal looked directly at Blaine with a detectable sadness in his eyes.

"Oh Blaine."

Blaine raised his eyes up to look at the man. His throat felt dry from running in the cold air. Or maybe it was the unfamiliarity of being _pitied_. He hated pity. And there was certainly not a culture of it at Dalton.

"First thing's first, please put your shirt on."

That was better – business-like and professional.

Wes trotted over towards Blaine and handed him his shirt, patting him on the shoulder before resuming his position flanking the Principal. Blaine wrapped his shirt around his body like a blanket, his fingers shaking too much to button it.

"Now, can you please explain to me why you were wandering the Dalton grounds with no shirt on? Can you even remember how you got here?" The Principal's voice was booming, but in a reassuring way.

Blaine's bewildered expression must have spoken a thousand words.

"Well, you weren't unconscious exactly. You were just… unresponsive. Rachin guided you from the foyer to my office."

Blaine gave a slight nod. It was clear that despite his regained lucidity, he would remain silent.

"Well then Wesley, we turn to you. Can you please suggest why Mr. Anderson is in this state?"

Wes looked down, avoiding Blaine's big eyes that shone with unshed tears.

"It's been a year," the boy began quietly. "And Blaine forgot, because he's been so busy and he's probably operating on around two hours of sleep right now. And David reminded him, right in the middle of the changing room in front of everyone."

Wes's foot twitched on the carpet as Principal Baines' eyebrows shot up in understanding.

Blaine didn't blame him for telling as he was sure it would have come out either way. Everyone in the changing room had known something was up, after all. He looked up to give his friend a reassuring smile; he was happy he hadn't had to say it.

And then, when Blaine had thought the whole thing couldn't get weirder, he noticed that Monsieur Rachin, Rachin the Bastard, Rachin the badge stomper, Rachin the totallest twattiest prick in the universe, was crying.

_Crying_.

Into a polka dot silk handkerchief, no less.

"I am so sorry Blaine, so sorry. I have not been informed of your situation, so I do not know of your past circumstances. I am truly sorry that I grabbed your arm. I think this is what caused you to panic. I still do not know why you reacted like this, but I can plainly see I have caused you great pain." His accent thickened with every teardrop that fell.

Silence.

"Well said, Rachin," Principal Baines praised.

A pause.

"Now we move on to _that_."

Blaine's breath hitched as he felt an accusing finger pointing in the direction of his chest. His elephant.

"Well, what is it?"

Blaine twitched. His mouth seemed incapable of forming words.

Principal Baines looked up towards Wes, hoping that the boy would have the answer once again.

"I don't know what it is, Sir. I've never seen it close up before."

Baines cast his eyes back towards Blaine.

"Tell us what it is, it might help us understand," commanded Baines, in a soft but authoritative tone.

"NO."

Everyone, including Blaine himself, seemed alarmed that he had finally found his voice.

Then a whisper.

"It's not against the rules if no one can see it."

"That is indeed true," replied Baines, "And it is not my intention to confiscate it."

He paused and Blaine heaved in relief.

"But I will admit that I am confused, Blaine. You function so well on a day-to-day basis; you're ordinarily so, well, _ordinary_."

Rachin coughed.

"He's right, you're _extra_ordinary. You've got your music, you've got your theatre, you've got your swimming, not to mention that you've got the best academic record of anyone in the school. You're probably one of the very best pupils _ever _to have attended Dalton. In fact, this very morning you sat in that same seat and spoke so passionately about the need for, umm, health classes at Dalton. So why this? How can you be all of that, and then be like _this_?"

"I don't know, Sir." Blaine replied apologetically, looking down at his feet.

"Okay, well I'll be giving your parents a call. Obviously."

At least Michael was in Washington. At least he'd only have to face the awkwardness with his mom.

"Is your mother at home?"

"She isn't. She'll be back at 4."

Baines knew that Karen was seldom able to reschedule her day at such short notice.

"Well then, I think it'd be best if you return to class so that you don't go home to an empty house. Sit out of swimming, then go home."

Blaine got up out of his chair and went over to shake the Principal's hand, as was customary.

"Take care, Blaine."

* * *

><p>And Blaine did.<p>

But certainly not in the way that the Principal had advised.

In a matter of minutes, Blaine was back at the sports complex in his swimming trunks, swimming hat and goggles. Relieved to see his classmates ploughing the lanes, he jumped into the pool and let himself be consumed by the familiar comforting pressure of the water against his body. He dipped his head under the lane ropes as he moved into the fast lane, taking a deep breath before he launched himself into his front crawl with a strong kick off the wall.

He was only aware that the other guys had spotted him when he noticed that the lane had emptied. Yeah, that tended to happen.

Once warmed up, he launched into fly. His arms thrashed down into the water, perfectly synchronised with his strong dolphin kicks.

And as he swam, the anger and grief began to flow out of his aching muscles. He was heartbroken and it still really, _really _hurt, but at least some of that long-buried sadness was starting to burrow its way out of his rotten core. He kicked faster, struck harder, breathed deeper.

And then he heard it: a soft voice that came from deep within him, a subconscious thought clearly audible against the silent backdrop of the water.

"_Promise me you won't quit the swim team."_

And, deep underwater, he smiled widely and broadly. Though he didn't compete any more, he'd stuck with the swimming despite everything. It was yet another thing he should be thankful to Orrin for. Swimming made him feel alive. Swimming made him _him _again.

* * *

><p>Poolside, Kurt stood watching Blaine as his powerful back and shoulder muscles propelled him through the water at breakneck speed. Each time Blaine reached the end of the pool, he'd sink underwater only to appear facing the opposite side just seconds later. <em>Tumbleturn<em>, Kurt remembered, that's what it was called.

Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he looked up to see the broad figure of Coach Wheeler standing beside him.

"Blaine's quite something, eh Hummel?" he boomed.

"Umm yes, he's clearly very talented."

"You know, he used to compete in state galas. His old coach reckoned he'd make the nationals one day."

"Why didn't he?"

"Time. Simple as. Kid's got a lot on his plate, so he just couldn't recuperate fast enough from an injury he had. He's still good enough for state galas if he wants, I just don't think he sees competitive swimming in his future."

With that, the coach chuckled to himself.

"And why would he, with a brain like that? His passion is for academia and music, this is just a hobby. A hobby he just so happens to be very, _very_ good at."

"Yes," Kurt murmured, "I'm yet to see him be bad at something."

"Yep, he's pretty insufferable," Wheeler laughed. "That's our Blaine."

And as if that were explanation enough, Wheeler walked off towards the deep end.

"ANDERSON, YOU'RE GETTING SLOPPY."

And Blaine went even harder, faster and stronger.

* * *

><p>As is often the case in such situations, no one mentioned anything that had happened. Wes whistled away in the showers, David spilled his shampoo everywhere, Kurt skittered off into the toilets to change back into his uniform. Nothing seemed strange or out of character.<p>

And even in the changing room when Wes finally said, "Dude, you coming to Warblers practice?", the anxiety that laced the very edges of his voice was imperceptible to all but David and Blaine himself.

"Yeah, man, I'll be there," Blaine sighed, running his fingers through his wet hair. "We need to do the auditions so you guys kinda need me, I guess. Christ, why did we leave it till the last minute, anyway?"

Wes chuckled.

"Don't we always?"

"But this is a whole new thing, we've never competed as a show choir and - "

"Calm down, Blaine. It doesn't matter; no one expects anything of us this time round."

"But I don't have time to arrange anything else and we need two songs and it's all just going to pot and -"

"Shut up, Blaine. Go gunk your hair and we'll head off to the choir room together. It's all going to be okay."

Blaine desperately hoped he was right.

"Umm, and Wes?" he whispered, his toes tracing the grout of the tiles.

"Yeah?"

"You didn't tell Kurt did you? I mean, about the thing. Today's thing. Like, David didn't say anything did he?"

Wes looked at him, right in the eyes.

"No, Blaine. No one told Kurt. And it'll stay that way for as long as you want it to because the only people who really know what happened are David and I. And even we don't know everything."

Blaine felt his Wes's gaze boring through his shirt towards the elephant concealed behind it.

"But I'll be straight with you: everyone at Dalton has heard rumours about what happened, factual or otherwise, and although it's easy for them to forget that something so awful happened to you when you're _Blaine Anderson_, someone's going to slip up sooner or later. Especially when you get triggered."

"Like today."

Wes nodded. "Like today."

"But he doesn't know?"

"No. But why would it bother you if he did? Why would you care? Kurt won't judge you."

Blaine shifted his eyes back to the tiled flooring.

"Because I don't want him to think of me any differently, I guess."

Because Kurt didn't really know Blaine.

He knew _Blaine Anderson_.

And _Blaine Anderson_ wasn't real.

* * *

><p>Fifteen minutes later, Wes appeared in the choir room doorway flanked by Blaine Anderson. The room fell silent. Blaine gulped, reminding himself that few Warblers chose swimming as their games option; most were soccer players, so wouldn't know anything about what had happened earlier.<p>

Wes produced his gavel from his pocket, whacking it despite the pre-existing silence of the room.

"Guys, this is how it's gonna go. We've decided that we're going to rehearse _Hey Soul Sister _first because that is a solo song. To be sung by Blaine, obviously."

Blaine shot a small smile of humility at the floor.

"After that, we will hold the auditions for the solo verse of our other song. Then we will send Kurt, Jeff and Nick out of the room while the rest of us make a decision. Just to be fair, we won't say what the song will be as it may affect your choice of audition songs. We want to hear your voice as you think it should be heard."

Kurt grinned up at Blaine, visibly excited to have been given this opportunity. Blaine's heart swelled in a mixture of nerves for Kurt and – well, he wasn't really sure what the other thing was. It was probably just anxiety that Kurt would figure everything out before he was willing to tell him on his own terms. Yeah, that.

Wes bashed the gavel.

"Right, so Blaine's gonna teach us _Hey Soul Sister_ now. We'll learn it in the exact same way as we have with the others, so tenors go to the right of the room, baritones sit on the sofas and basses go to the left."

The Warblers parted like the red sea, leaving Kurt and Jon floating helplessly in the centre of the room.

"Jon, just join the basses for now. Your beat boxing will have the same rhythm as their part."

And then Blaine's eyes met Kurt's.

"Kurt, I know you're a countertenor but can you sing lower?"

Kurt smiled widely.

"Yeah, I can sing low too. Probably not very powerfully, though."

And then it occurred to Blaine. Wes was a decent tenor, but he struggled a bit in the higher registers. Even though Blaine had never heard Kurt sing properly, he knew that the higher registers were his preference. He could sing _Defying Gravity_ for God's sake. And he had the show choir experience that everyone else was lacking.

"Wes, I'm going to move you to the spot behind me. Kurt, you're singing the highest part, so you'll be last to sing today. Umm, yeah, apart from me, I sing after you. You're going to be on my left, David will be on my right."

Blaine thought he'd caught the vestiges of a scowl on Wes's face, but it vanished as quickly as it had come.

Over the next ninety minutes, he painstakingly built up the melody from the basses to Kurt, adjusting each person's part as they went to eventually result in fourteen separate lines. It was beyond complicated, but everyone seemed to have picked it up (even if he'd had to clap the 2/4 time in certain people's faces so they didn't rush).

By the time Blaine slotted in his solo with that first 'Hey', the room was buzzing. Everyone was on the top of their game, everyone was slapping Blaine on the back, no one remembered what had happened earlier.

And so, on top of those tired eyes and pulsing brain, the showface descended.

Blaine Anderson was well and truly back on form.

* * *

><p>After five minutes of two-step choreography, it was time for the auditions.<p>

Blaine's stomach churned inexplicably with nerves. He wasn't even auditioning. And why did he care so much about what was essentially a secondary activity for a chapel choir? This was meant to be for _fun_.

As per tradition, they went from low to high voice.

Jeff began with a fun rendition of 'All About You'.

Nick followed it with a lively 'Haven't Met You Yet'.

And then Kurt stood.

And then the music started.

And then – oh god, ohgodohgod.

Kurt could sing.

Kurt could _really _sing.

Blaine's head started to fill with a million possibilities of how he could feature Kurt, how Kurt would be great as a countertenor in a sextet, how Kurt would add texture to everything he'd ever arrange in chapel, how Kurt was brilliant and fantastic and incredible. And so _different_.

But then he _listened _to Kurt. Really listened.

And then it struck him: the difference didn't just come from the voice, which was spectacular, but from the _performance _of it all, the way Kurt handled himself. The way Kurt _was_, deep inside.

Because unlike the other two, Kurt _felt_, Kurt _emoted_.

And, after he thought there were none left, his eyes once again began to fill with a reservoir of tears.

All through the first verse, Blaine was on the verge. Emotionally and physically exhausted, Kurt was wrenching his heartstrings, making him _feel _all over again. Tug by violent tug, he was wrenching off that showface, his voice crushing its icy hardness into nothing more than ash and dust.

And then.

_I had to let it happen, I had to change  
>Couldn't stay all my life down at heel<br>Looking out of the window, staying out of the sun_

_So I chose freedom._

There were no two ways about it, Kurt was bearing his soul to everyone sitting in that room.

Something Blaine was sure he'd never have the courage to do.

Something that just wasn't _done_.

And he suddenly felt awkward for himself and awkward for Kurt and before he knew it he was making gestures to discourage Kurt from moving his arms, screaming STOP STOP STOP on the inside but it wouldn't stop and –

He zoned out for the rest of the song.

Before he knew what had hit him, Kurt and Nick and Jeff had left the room and he was standing in front of The Warblers announcing that they'd be performing 'She's Always A Woman'.

And no matter how you cut it, Kurt just wasn't right for it.

And everyone agreed.

First, Trent. "Kurt was great, but he has a background voice. Textural, right Blaine?"

Then Thad, "Kurt didn't fit with the Warbler ethos."

And then Wes.

"Kurt didn't sound manly enough to pull off the song."

And then, not for the first time that day, Blaine lost it.

"Kurt was the best and you all know it. But you're right, this song isn't right for him. And it's not because he isn't right for The Warblers or because he's not manly, which is a point that's full of shit by the way, but because this song was arranged by me. For a baritone. _Not_ a countertenor. So we'll try Nick and Jeff on the solo today, but we won't write Kurt off forever. Because Kurt is incredible and unique and an asset to this group. _Not _a background voice."

Dumbstruck silence.

Then Wes spoke.

"Umm, Blaine, I don't think I can really see Kurt as a two-step kind of guy. I see him as someone more at home in peacock feathers and a blonde wig. He's not a guy's guy and that's what The Warblers is, isn't it? Slick dudes in blazers."

Blaine couldn't believe that _Wes _was talking like this.

His voice went very quiet.

"I'm honestly in shock, Wes. How can you square your friendship with me with your views on Kurt? I just don't get it. At all."

"This isn't about being gay, Blaine," Wes began softly, "I have no problem with you or Kurt or anyone living their lives how they want. But Kurt is _flamboyant_, and he has to learn to be a part of us. No matter what you say or think or do in whatever personal relationship or friendship or whatever you have with him, he has to fit into the group. The group should never have to fit around him."

And no matter what Blaine thought, no matter how much he respected Kurt as a performer and singer and dancer, he had to agree that The Warblers was very much a team effort. Especially now, while they were establishing themselves. It wasn't about screaming to be noticed, it was about being a cog in the machine.

"I think it's best if you tell them what we have decided, Blaine. You're good at letting people down gently."

Blaine still felt shaky from earlier; the day was just dragging on and on, on and on and on. But he'd go and deliver the news, and he'd rather tell Kurt than have someone else do it.

And as he told Kurt that he'd been unsuccessful, that he shouldn't stand out, shouldn't try so hard, shouldn't scream for attention, he saw himself crushing Kurt's hopes, dreams and happiness right before his eyes.

_You're good at letting people down._

And he was. Now and always.

And Kurt probably hated him.

Because now he'd had a glimpse of who Blaine truly was.

* * *

><p>"<em>What foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men."<em>

* * *

><p><strong>AN Sorry about the time it's taken me to update! I had planned to finish over Christmas (lol) but now I'm back at uni trying to keep my head above water. Having so much fun though. Thanks so much for your all patience. Hope you enjoyed this one.**


	18. Open Fire

**Chapter 18: Open Fire**

_The dragon drinks the blood of the elephant for the purpose of cooling his burning intestines._

- Westminster Bestiary, c. 1285

* * *

><p>Things started to look up as soon as Blaine went back to school the day after the horrific swimming pool incident. To his intense relief, no one said anything or looked at him weirdly or fell silent when he walked into a classroom. His mother hadn't mentioned anything about it in the one minute he'd spent with her that morning (though that was probably because she hadn't yet been through her voicemails), and everyone who'd been in the changing room seemed to have either forgotten or taken a respectful vow of silence. Knowing Dalton, it was probably the latter.<p>

Instead, the Dalton hallways were filled with chatter of Sectionals and how The Warblers were going to win and whether there'd be a half-day so the school could go and support them and whether they could get permission to dye their hair blue and red as a mark of support and… Well, the list went on.

Blaine only managed to feel the buzz once Kurt had hugged him good morning as usual. After that, he was practically ricocheting off the walls.

And when Friday came, he knew that his excitement hadn't been in vain.

* * *

><p>Western Ohio High School Sectionals.<p>

Southern Theatre, Columbus, Ohio.

The Hipsters vs. The Warblers vs. The New Directions.

Or, to be blunt, The Warblers vs. The New Directions.

Blaine knew as soon as the curtains went up that it was going to be the performance of their lives. He was on fire, intoxicated by the music that coursed through his veins, his body sparking with an electrifying thrill he'd never felt before. This was so unlike the choral competitions they'd entered in the past which, though thrilling from a musical perspective, were invariably austere and joyless occasions. Here in this theatre the chords sounded wonderful, every one of them pitch perfect, every one of them even better than they'd sounded in his head.

He began dancing up front, swept away by the rhythm of the song and the buzz from the audience and the sound of The Warblers behind him. Before he knew anything more than he'd given his absolute all, the song was over. The Warblers shuffled around him, reconfiguring themselves for their second song. The audience fell silent as a close harmony soared through the packed theatre, Nick's solo verse ringing out over the harmonies into the auditorium.

It was perfect.

And then it was over.

And then it was the turn of the New Directions.

Blaine could feel Kurt practically pulsing out of his seat as the music began, watching him as his eyes lit up as he spotted a blonde boy stepping out into the stalls. Blaine felt his stomach drop. The melody then switched to a blonde girl, and the audience looked across towards the other aisle in a single synchronised movement. Barbie and Ken weren't quite pitch perfect, but they were beyond _picture_ perfect, and that was what competitions such as these often came down to.

"That guy is Sam," whispered an excited Kurt, "And the girl is Quinn."

Blaine's mind flicked back to everything Kurt had told him about the New Directions. Quinn, she was the girl who'd had the baby, right? Kurt had told him that she was thinking about Yale. And Sam, a transfer student who'd already played quarterback and now had a duet at Sectionals. Both knew a thing or two about bouncing back, that was for sure. But he wasn't sure about this performance. It was a bit, well, saccharine; too sickly sweet even for him, and he was developing a certain penchant for the cliché.

But then the curtain lifted and the New Directions started. Blaine could understand exactly why Kurt missed them so much; they were the very antithesis of The Warblers, each of them bringing their own effervescent personalities with them onto the stage. Blaine was swept up with them and their performance, even though he knew it would never translate to the land of Dalton where conformity was (and always would be) king.

The performance continued to rev up, just like a well-tuned motor. Mercedes hit a stunning final note, just as Kurt had predicted earlier. He had shot up to his feet within seconds of the song ending.

Then a drum beat started, and a girl with beautiful dark brown hair seized the mic.

"That's Santana," hissed Kurt, "She's a bitch, but kinda loveable despite and because of it. This is her first solo. Rachel Berry is _fuming_."

Blaine pulled his eyes away from Santana and saw the girl he'd seen for the first time earlier that day. Yep, that was a showface. He could spot one a mile off.

But then his eyes involuntarily shifted to see a different blonde girl and an Asian guy doing a dance. They were _incredible_. Too incredible. And they made his own little hops around the stage look like a drunk on rollerskates.

He leant over to Kurt.

"Did they hire those dancers?"

Blaine's heart leapt as Kurt's face lit up with a proud smile.

"No, they are Brittany and Mike. They're amazing though, I've never seen them this good before."

Man, The Warblers were screwed. There were no two ways about it.

Except there kind of were.

Because, miraculously, it was a two-way tie.

Which meant that The Warblers were going to Regionals. REGIONALS.

Blaine was delighted that he hadn't screwed it up.

And Kurt was shooting him the biggest smile ever.

And Mr Schuester was shaking his hand and patting his shoulder choirmaster to choirmaster because he was impressed that a sixteen year old could have put a fifteen-part harmony together so to such great perfection.

And he felt a warm feeling surge through his body.

Success.

It was intoxicating.

And he hadn't felt it like this, pure and unadulterated, for so, _so _long.

* * *

><p>Blaine remained on his massive high as the semester continued to ebb away towards Winter Break. Ohio slowly shifted its way from late autumn into the dead of winter, shrugging off the last of its rotten leaves and covering itself in smooth swathes of perfect, forgetful snow. The traditional Dalton poinsettias started to appear all over the school, the nights drew in and the fires were lit. It was picture perfect, and Blaine was on top of the world.<p>

And, when he thought things couldn't get any better, he received a call from a talent scout at King's Island who'd seen him at Sectionals and wanted to include him in their Christmas show doing a duet with some girl named Hollie. Finally, things in his life were awesome. This holiday was going to be so, _so _cool.

* * *

><p>Strolling into the student lounge after classes on the last Monday of the semester, Blaine felt the best he had in months. He felt healthy, he felt confident, and best of all he felt hopeful. And to top it off, he had planned in meticulous detail a spontaneous rehearsal with one Kurt Hummel.<p>

He was, in truth, more than a bit surprised that the boy had agreed to give up his valuable time for an unspecified after school meeting, but the enthusiastic 'yes' that had come in place of the lukewarm response he'd expected had just made him happier and more excitable.

And _yes, _the plan to tell Kurt that he needed to rehearse for the theme park show may have been a little white lie, but he was kind of telling the truth, _kind of_. The theme park did exist, certainly, and he _would_ be performing there. Of course, he didn't plan on mentioning that the rehearsal would come with the bonus of allowing him to hear Kurt's voice at close enough quarters that he'd be able to establish exactly what it could do. That was absolutely nothing more than an added extra, just a little perk. But oh god, he was so excited by Kurt's voice.

"Hey." He thumped his stereo down onto a side table, retrospectively hoping that he hadn't damaged the veneer.

Kurt, who had been hunched over a fat book beside the roaring fire, jumped in surprise.

"You scared me."

"Well, good, because I'm actually Marley's ghost and I'm here to tell you to stop studying so hard."

Man, Dickens was awesome. He needed to read _A Christmas Carol _again, maybe twice just so he could feel he'd got halfway to the bottom of it. Blaine just couldn't understand why people didn't like his works; they offered some of the best characterisations of the whole English canon. Who was it that had had a hard time with _Hard Times_? Someone, who was it? It was a long time ago, now. Oh.

His lips twitched upwards at the memory, before breaking out into a large beam as Kurt shot him a look that said, _Yes you're a genius but mortals like me have to study ten times harder than you to even begin to compete with your kind of marks_.

"What is with the boombox?"

Oh god, Blaine _really_ hoped Kurt would go along with this.

"I need you to sing with me. Well, rehearse with me. I got a gig singing _Baby It's Cold Outside _in the King's Island Christmas Spectacular."

Crunch time.

"Aaaah, a personal favourite. Too bad they'd never let us sing it together."

Huh?

"I mean as two… artists."

"Mmmmm…"

"So, you gonna help me out here?"

"Anything to get me to stop reading about Charlemagne."

_742-812. Carolingian Dynasty. Holy Roman Emperor. Carolingian Renaissance. Rex Francorum. Rex Longobardorum'. Cavalry Revolution._

"Very good, then."

And then he pressed play.

And then they were dancing around each other, Kurt acting the role of the flirtatious pursued 'baby' so well that he couldn't help but act in return. But that didn't stop him from reading every sign on Kurt's face, listening to every nuance of his voice to figure out how a seventeen-year-old could possibly have acquired such a smooth transition between his chest and head voices. And then he looked at his lips, mesmerised by the way they shaped themselves around each word and…

Wow.

_Ooh baby it's cold, outside._

Kurt broke the semi-awkward silence.

"I think you're ready."

"Well, for the record, you are a lot better than that girl's gonna be."

And then he made a quick exit. Because he was feeling a bit strange, and Kurt had said he was expecting a guest, and he needed to go think about a possible Dalton sextet featuring Kurt. Kurt…

And, in no hurry to go home, Blaine sat beside the library fireplace with a wodge of manuscript paper and poured himself into arranging 'Windmills of Your Mind' for an a capella sextet.

But, no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't get it _quite _right.

_Like a door that keeps revolving in a half-forgotten dream_

_Or the ripples from a pebble someone tosses in a stream._

_Half-remembered names and faces but to whom do they belong?_

_As the images unwind,_

_Like the circles that you find, in the windmills of your mind._

And it wasn't because he couldn't feel the song, the usual problem when he couldn't make the notes leap from his mind onto the page.

No, he felt the song too much.

Even though he wasn't quite sure what he felt.

He was confused, and that was kind of the meaning of song, too. Mulling over stuff, vague nostalgia…

The door that keeps revolving in a half-forgotten dream…

And the ripples from a vanished pebble. Yep, they were still too strong to know whether he wanted to forget or harness them.

What was happiness, anyway?

All he knew was that Kurt's openness when it came to emotion, even the acting kind, left him feeling _really _confused.

* * *

><p>Somewhere along the line, he'd given up and settled back with <em>Maurice<em>, his current obsession. E.M. Forster, now he was a peculiar one. Returned from India to find material for a travel novel, but ended up pouring his heart out into a positive story about the homosexual Maurice that he knew wouldn't be publishable upon completion. Forster had even marked that very sentiment on the manuscript – _Publishable, but worth it?_ And then there were the theories that when he finally lost his virginity in his late 30s to a wounded soldier, his creativity went down the drain too. Could that really happen? Really? Certainly a character, either way.

"Blaine Anderson?"

It was an unfamiliar voice, so Blaine shoved the novel into his bag with extra haste. He hated being asked about what he was reading, especially when it was a talking point to make conversation. Books deserved far better treatment than that.

He looked up from his bag to see Mr Schuester standing at the door.

"I don't know whether you remember me from Sectionals or what Kurt's told you, but I'm Mr Schuester. I coach the New Directions."

"It's great to see you again, Mr Schuester."

The teacher cast his eyes over the desk Blaine was sitting at.

"So what Kurt says is true, then? You arrange all this stuff yourself. What's this?"

He reached down to pick up a page of scribbled music.

"Umm, I'd really rather you didn't. It's sort of… private."

Blaine cursed the lack of force in his voice. He was _way _too polite.

Mr Schuester put his arms up in mock-surrender.

"Yes, yes, I suppose we're technically competitors."

It was odd that that was the first thing that had popped into the teacher's head. Blaine hadn't even thought about the issue of plagiarism, music was always about emotion before anything else. He didn't particularly need this shoe man gazing into his thoughts, right now.

"Anyway, the New Directions are singing in aid of homeless children and I guess we need your help. I came here to ask Kurt for some shopping advice but when I mentioned our disastrous attempt at carolling in classrooms, he suggested I call in on you. He couldn't stop talking about your talent for arranging music, and apparently you're even better at choral stuff than you are at the a capella Warbler material. It's amazing what you achieve, Blaine. I'm sure you've got an amazing future in music production if your heart's in it."

Blaine blushed and looked down at the floor.

"But Kurt also tells me you're the cleverest guy in the school, so I'm guessing you'll be transferring straight from Harvard to NASA before anyone can say _appassionato _or _impetuoso _or _trionfale_. You're going to be living your life in the _presto _lane, especially as I hear you're a great swimmer too."

He chuckled at the joke. It wasn't funny.

Blaine sighed inaudibly.

"So what do you want me to do?"

"Well… we, the New Directions, wanted to raise money for homeless kids but when we tried carolling around McKinley, we basically got thrown out of everywhere we went. I was hoping that you'd maybe considering arranging something for us, anything? I have no experience of arranging music, let alone choral stuff, and the kids are really set on this idea. And let's be honest, whatever you do can't be worse than what we were singing before. I still have a bruise from where that shoe hit me… Obviously, we can't pay you but we'll return the favour somehow, we promise."

"I'll do it." He wasn't even sure why he'd agreed. Maybe it was something to do with meeting Kurt's friends, maybe because it was because it'd make Kurt happy, maybe it was just to make this smarmy man go away.

Mr Schuester clapped his hands together.

"Fantastic. When can you get it done for?"

"Tomorrow? I can email the Sibelius file through to you."

God, why did he do this to himself?

"That's great, Blaine. We really do appreciate it."

There was nothing more to be said, so they shook hands and walked out of the library, bumping into Kurt into the corridor. Mr Schuester winked at him when he thought Blaine wasn't watching, and Kurt grinned in his direction.

After waving Mr Schue off, Kurt shot a wide smile at him.

"Thanks so much for doing this, Blaine. My friends will really appreciate not getting shoes thrown at them."

"It's no trouble. I'm thinking of doing _Welcome Christmas_ from The Grinch, do you think that'd work?"

"Yeah," Kurt murmured, "that'd be amazing, Blaine."

Blaine smiled.

"Anyway, I'd better get arranging. I'll see you later."

"Bye, Blaine."

He drove home, his mind filled with harmonies and melodies and grinches.

* * *

><p>Blaine sighed as he pulled up at the house in Cremona Drive, noticing that his mother's new Porsche was already parked in the drive. He couldn't remember the last time she'd made it home before him; she was rarely even home for dinner nowadays. He kind of missed her.<p>

He silently unlocked the door and crept inside the house, ready to get going on the arrangement. Why oh why had he agreed to so short a deadline? Man, he was such an idiot sometimes.

He set foot on the staircase, ready to –

"Blaine, come and sit down for a second please."

Damn.

He sighed as he turned back towards the lounge, before opening the door and moving to sit beside the fire opposite his rather imperious-looking mother. She was dressed in a finely tailored black skirt suit and sheer tights, and her hair was scraped back into a French twist. On her lapel, she wore a 'Mrs Mike Anderson' pin badge. Blaine felt sick that she saw it as a fit way of defining herself.

After shooting a small smile in his direction, Blaine was appalled to see her whip out her diary. She sat back in the chair and crossed her legs, perching her diary on her lap. Blaine had seen her sit in exactly this way in many a business meeting.

"So, Blaine, when does school finish for this semester?"

"We finish on Friday, mom. Why?"

"Well, I just wanted to know when you'd be available to collect your grandfather from the airport at six pm on Friday. He'll be spending Christmas with us."

Blaine froze. Was she serious?

"I know it's a lot to ask, darling, especially with your relationship with him as it is, but the trouble is that your father is using Winston and his car for a campaign rally, and I really need to be there too. So that just leaves you, doesn't it? And I really am very sorry, but you're just going to have to lump it. The airport's only twenty minutes away, it shouldn't be too bad. You can endure the miserable old bugger for half an hour."

Blaine cringed as she used that b- word without spending a millisecond thinking about its provenance.

"Sorted." She smiled as she flicked her fountain pen over the page, apparently ticking something off her agenda. "Oh, and you'll probably have to entertain him that evening, too. Your father and I will be at a function. Again, apologies, but it really was impossible to get out of. Apparently, there'll be wonderful champagne. Every cloud has a golden, bubbly lining, I suppose."

She tittered to herself, obviously oblivious to Blaine's discomfort.

"Now, onto our next point. Your competition: how did it go? I think I saw a brief mention of it as I was flicking through the paper on my way to the Politics section. I'm sorry I didn't have time to read it."

"Yeah, we tied. Going to Regionals in March, so that's –"

"Brilliant. It's great to catch up Blaine. Now, onto our final thing, the small matter of _this_ message."

Fuck. He'd forgotten about that.

She wiggled her phone in his face, before pressing play.

"Welcome to the AT&T Voicemail messaging service. You have, fifty six, new messages. To listen to a new message, key 1. To talk to an advisor about how we can improve your call package, key 2. To talk to an advisor about our internet and data plans, key 3. To talk to an advisor about our range of landline, internet and mobile phone devices that could save you megabucks, key 4. To listen to a save message, key 5."

"We got there," Karen huffed impatiently as she keyed 5 into her iPhone.

"Begin, saved message one, of, two hundred and twelve. November 24th, 2010."

There was a beep before a familiar, deep voice filled the room. Blaine felt ready to die in a hole.

"_Hello? Hello? Oh, pardon me, this is voicemail. Hello, Mrs Anderson, this is Richard Baines speaking, Principal of your son's school. Don't worry, he isn't in any trouble. It is my duty, however, to tell you that Blaine had a suspected panic attack which entailed his running about the school with no shirt on before fainting in the main foyer. It hasn't gone on his record for obvious reasons, but we are under obligation to let you know about this occurrence so that you can take appropriate action. Call my secretary if you wish to discuss this matter personally. Thanks, bye._"

Dial tone.

"So?"

The silence weighed heavily in the air like a cloud of lead.

"Umm, I got triggered I guess. I'd kinda forgotten what day it was before my friend reminded me, and it just got a little out of hand. I'm fine, I promise."

Karen sent him a searching stare.

"Blaine, we're a year on and whatever this is, you're not fine."

"But I am. I have this amazing friend and he's helping me even though he doesn't really know that he is and he doesn't know anything about me really but he's just the nicest guy ever and he's so brave and I just -"

Shit. That had been out loud, hadn't it?

Karen's icy front seemed to melt off as her face softened in the memory that her son was a human being.

"And what is this young gentleman's name?"

"Ummm."

He didn't want to share it. Not yet.

So he said the first name that popped into his head.

"It's Jeremiah."

WHAT?

"Jeremiah..." Shit, he couldn't remember the guy's surname. Make one up, Blaine, make one up.

"Kennedy."

Karen's credence of the statement only proved how little time they'd been spending together; he'd been convinced that anyone could have seen through that lie, anyone, but Karen was lapping it up. And Kennedy? Really? At least he was a Democrat…

"Does he, you know, share your inclinations?"

"Ummm, yeah, I guess. But yeah."

Karen winked at him.

"Don't tell your father, but I say go for it. And any more of these little 'trigger' events and you'll be packed off to a shrink before you can say _I'm really fine_."

Blaine reddened as he twisted his hands into awkward shapes. How had she become so crass in so little time? He felt sick.

She continued before his mind had had time to process anything beyond his intense shock.

"It's so nice to have these little chats, Blaine. When I said I'd be keeping an eye on you, I really meant it."

She kissed him on the cheek as she adjourned their meeting, allowing Blaine to retreat into the sanctuary offered by his bedroom.

The arrangement was complete less three hours later.

* * *

><p>Friday came and went in the customary Dalton way. Lessons were cancelled, and the whole school piled into the Academy Chapel for the annual Lessons and Carols service that was broadcast throughout Ohio every winter. Blaine's carol arrangements had gone without a hitch, and Kurt seemed to adjust well to the very <em>very <em>different way of singing. Maybe he'd need a little more practice on the Latin, but apart from that he'd be fine. Blaine couldn't wait to build a higher countertenor part into his next round of arrangements.

Next came the full Christmas dinner in the Dining Room, served on English Dalton crockery with the British tradition of Christmas crackers thrown in for good measure. Blaine developed a strange affinity with his pink paper hat, and wore it for the rest of the day. Kurt placed a thirty metre exclusion zone between him and his orange monstrosity.

After charades, sleeping lions and musical chairs, the day was over and Kurt and Blaine found themselves saying goodbye to each other on the steps. Blaine had this feeling of inexplicable sadness, like it would be a millennium before he'd see Kurt again. It was stupid: he was sure he'd be back in Lima in a matter of days. Damn, when had he become so _reliant_?

Reaching into his bag, he produced the gift he desperately hoped Kurt would like.

"Umm, so I was in the mall and I picked this thing up for you." He was fidgeting. Get a grip, Blaine. "I hope you like it."

Kurt grinned as he ripped the tissue paper off, exposing the dog print cravat Blaine had purchased weeks earlier.

"Oh my god, Blaine. Is this from Paul Smith?"

"Umm, yeah. Yeah, it is."

Before he knew it, he was engulfed in an enormous Kurt hug. "Thank you so much, Blaine, you have no idea how long I've been lusting after this. God, I've even considered making a replica out of a remarkably similar pattern present on my dad's curtains, and I don't usually go for the curtains look, really, I don't. Damn, my present won't ever compare with this…"

Blaine's eyes flicked upwards.

"You got me a present?"

Kurt slapped him on the arm and blushed.

"Of course I did, silly."

He reached into his own bag, producing a small but exquisitely wrapped cardboard box topped with an enormous silver bow.

"It's not much, but I hope you like it."

Blaine carefully untied the bow and unwrapped the box, making sure he didn't rip the paper.

He took the lid off and gazed inside.

It was an elephant.

An elephant that had been carved onto the back of a watchface.

"I noticed your necklace and asked Wes about it. He said you really like elephants. I'd figured that out anyway from your insane knowledge of the skeletal structure of large animals in that biology class last month, but anyway, nice to have it affirmed. Since it's Christmas, I thought I'd deign to satisfy your crazy ways."

He was chatting too animatedly to notice Blaine's eyes that sparked with tears.

"Thank you, Kurt."

He had to get out of there before he lost it.

He managed a quick, "I've gotta go to the airport. See you," which he accompanied with a hug, before scurrying to his car.

It was only then that he lifted the watch out from the box. It had a solid leather strap in rich brown leather, and the face itself was an elegant cream with roman numerals in dark black edged in gold. It really was a beautiful piece.

And then he turned it over to see that beautiful engraved elephant.

This watch was him all over. The real him, the slightly eccentric and hugely preppy him. The one that Kurt must have _guessed_, as he'd never seen Blaine in street clothes.

What else did Kurt know?

And as Blaine wrapped the watch around his right wrist, he noticed something else. Yes, that little wheel used for changing the time was on the left hand side of the watch. _It was only a freaking left handed watch_.

Blaine didn't even know why he was crying.

* * *

><p>Less than half an hour later, he was standing at the arrivals gate awkwardly awaiting the grand entrance of his repulsive grandfather. He'd checked his eyes thoroughly for signs of tears, making sure he wouldn't be presenting a single facet of weakness to the critical old bastard. It was bad enough that he'd be spending the evening getting picked apart like carrion to a vulture; his grandfather didn't need a head start.<p>

The doors from arrivals slid open as yet another planeful of passengers passed through. Blaine looked at the people, trying to imagine where they'd come from. One lady carried an open bag filled with the most gorgeous scarf he'd ever seen. Maybe the flight had come from Morocco or somewhere. An overheard conversation revealed they'd actually come from Chicago.

After several more planefuls, Blaine's eyes honed in on the familiar gait of Michael Sr. He was hobbling even more than he had the last time Blaine had seen him. He felt no pity.

Once the old man was within earshot, Blaine extended his hand as a matter of courtesy.

"Hello, grandfather. How was your flight?"

"Fucking awful," the man replied brusquely, slotting the handle of his suitcase into Blaine's open palm. "The only thing that saved it was this wonderful radio broadcast from Westerville. Lessons and Carols, something like that. Wonderful. Everything else –"

He cut himself off abruptly as soon as he realised that he had somehow fallen into a half-decent conversation with someone he utterly despised.

What a bastard.

After a few moments of silence, the man spoke again, this time far more haughtily.

"Where's Winston? I was hugely disappointed when I discovered he wouldn't be driving me today, he's a sterling old chap. Fine morals, determined face, solid torso. Everything I look for in a man."

Blaine couldn't help but titter inwardly Michael's phrasing.

"What are you grinning at, boy? You certainly haven't managed to inherit the Anderson determination or torso. And as for morals, pffft. You and your poofy ways, I've never heard the like."

Blaine decided to take the upper ground.

"Winston's in Cincinnati with my father today."

"I see," replied the old man, his voice dripping with disapproval. "Now, I'd appreciate it if the world and his wife didn't see me with my queer grandson. You may pretend to be my chauffeur."

Blaine fumed silently, leaving his grandfather alone with his heavy suitcase as soon as they reached the house.

Nothing more was said between them for the remainder of the evening.

* * *

><p>Blaine managed to go three whole days without seeing Michael Sr. Three. They kept out of each other's way, with Blaine heading off to Kings Island for his show (which, as it turned out, was pretty cringey) and the two Michaels spending father-son time camping, fishing and shooting in a forest several hours away. Blaine even managed to avoid mealtimes by cooking up some cheap dehydrated noodles in the pantry while his parents dined with his grandfather.<p>

It was all pretty good.

Until it wasn't.

It began, as many things do nowadays, at his computer. It was Christmas Eve, and after checking the isobars on the National Weather Service website, Blaine had pretty much concluded that there'd be no White Christmas this year. It was, then, essentially a write-off.

He heard a slight tap at his door before his mother entered, dressed in a slinky red velvet bodycon number. Why did she try so hard?

"Blaine, we'd like it if you could join us for dinner tonight."

Her face reeked with apology. But she wasn't taking it back, was she?

"Put some proper pants on, darling. You know what your grandfather thinks of those maroon chinos. Dinner will be served in ten minutes."

Blaine huffed as he slunk over to his wardrobe and retrieved a tuxedo he'd had made while still at St. Kenny's. Tragically, he could still fit into it. Well, the pants were fine, but the jacket was too small. At least puberty had blessed him with broad shoulders…

He sighed and settled on a red v-neck instead.

* * *

><p>"That's a rather poofy outfit." Michael Sr. complained upon seeing Blaine at the door of the dining room.<p>

Blaine drew in a sharp breath through his teeth.

Fuck you, he screamed inwardly, FUCK YOU. Taking a deep, calming breath, he cast his eyes around the room.

Karen was gazing at the floor.

His father was laughing somewhat uncomfortably at the head of the table, before he replied with a light-hearted but warning, "Now, now, father, don't get at the poor boy. He's my son and we love him just as much, don't we Karen?"

"Of course, he's our pride and joy."

Blaine felt nauseous.

"Hmmm, he's lucky you see it that way. Where's my food? I am famished. These canapé numbers are woman's food, aren't they boy? I'll bet you like these."

"The goose will be coming in a second, sir," mediated Karen, who promptly darted back into the kitchen like a scalded rat.

And then there were three.

"So Blaine," began Michael Jr., "how's school? Are you still enjoying Geography? Your mother told me about your letters from Harvard."

"Pffft, colouring in. Seems a rather juvenile activity," came the scoff.

"Actually, there was none of that involved in this particular project," Blaine replied calmly. "I was actually carrying out an investigation into rainfall, temperature and dust storm anomalies in the Sahel in relation to the fuelwood crisis and desertification. And the professor at Harvard didn't seem to think me juvenile. His letter of congratulations was, well, suitably congratulatory."

Michael Sr. looked winded as he stuffed a canapé into his gobsmacked mouth. Michael Jr. appeared rather… impressed.

"And yes, father," Blaine continued, "It's going well. I've pretty much finished it forever now, I'll be sitting the final exam next month."

"Finished for sophomore year," corrected Michael Sr. haughtily, "Still two more years of colouring in all those pretty little patterns."

Blaine didn't care any more.

"Erm, no. Actually this is the AP course. I'm currently in a class of seniors."

Michael Sr. quickly became bored of this particular conversation.

"So Blaine, any girls you've got your eye on?"

Blaine just rolled his eyes.

But then, from the kitchen, it came.

"Any boys?"

_What was his mother saying?_

"Be quiet, Karen," hissed the grandfather in the direction of the door, "I will not have you condoning his revolting behaviour."

And this little exchange, those two little words in that simple little question, ended up setting the tone for the entirety of Christmas 2010.

Oh the power of the spontaneous spoken word.

* * *

><p>Not a word passed between the three men before they each took their place at 3PM sharp, ready for the traditional Anderson goose.<p>

Two of them murmured appreciatively as Karen emerged with the golden bird, its skin crackling in time to the roaring fire they had going beside the table. One of them complained that it appeared ever so slightly underdone.

Pretty normal so far, then. It was only after the bird and its accompanying vegetables had been set down on the table that the weirdness truly began.

"It's time for grace."

HUH? It was Michael _Senior's_ job to say grace.

Blaine shifted as he looked across at Karen, who seemed to be _grinning _at the table.

"Thank you Heavenly Father for this delicious goose, and for my lovely wife who so generously agreed to cook it. Amen."

Blaine cheered inwardly for his father. Sure, he was a prick sometimes, but on this occasion he was willing to forgive at least half of his father's multitude of faults. After all, Michael Sr.'s usual long and drawn out thanks to every conniving investor and corrupt banker on the planet always took so long that the goose was practically deep frozen by the time they got to it. There'd be no cold goose this year, that was for sure.

Then, the next weird thing –

Michael _Junior _was carving the goose. And he hadn't said a word. He hadn't even looked at his father.

Blaine had, though. He _savoured _the expression currently gracing his grandfather's face, which was at that moment shrivelled up as if he'd ingested a mouthful of lemon juice. Blaine observed that his lip twitched every now and then with involuntary tics of rage. It was plain to see that he was struggling to keep his calm.

Blaine tried not to laugh as these little things continued throughout the meal. _Karen _was the one asking if anyone wanted cranberry sauce, _Michael Jr. _was the one who decided it was time to bring out the desserts, _Blaine _asked about everyone's plans for the New Year.

And then Michael Sr. EXPLODED.

"How dare you, young man? How dare you have the arrogance to come in here and ask me that question when you know very well that that is _my _question that I ask every year. _My. Question_."

"Now father, I don't think Blaine was attempting to usurp you. I don't think you can claim any intellectual proprietorship over a simple question."

WHAT? His father was sticking up for him?

Blaine went with it.

"I assure you, grandfather, that I was merely interested in your plans for New York this January."

"Like hell you were. I knew from the second you were born that there was something wrong with you. Your face was plastered with a disingenuous expression the second you plopped out of your mother and entered this world. You just have that awful smarminess about you, so eager to please, so eager to be _perfect_. Perfect Blaine, perfect mommy in her fucking designer dress, perfect daddy who copies all my best methods but never quite does them justice. But they're not perfect, are they? Because they produced you, a poof child. And they say you're brave and bright and whatever, but you're not. Not at all. You couldn't figure out a way to save that darling little poof friend of yours. And now you're severely messed up in the head. Bet you didn't want your parents to know that, huh? That you're nothing more than a retarded queer _pervert_."

The way the jealous old dragon spat that final word sent a shiver of fire hurtling up Blaine's spine.

But Michael Sr. was far from finished.

"And you," he said, pointing at Karen, "You are a failure as a mother. All these years of marriage any only one, defected, child to show for it. You need some sorting out; I have no idea why my son went against my wishes to marry a slut like you. I hear you weren't even… _pure_… when you married. Spoiled goods, spoiled goods, spoiled goods."

The crackling fire suddenly became the loudest sound in the room as a silence descended over the table.

But then Blaine went for it.

And, for once, Angry Blaine remained imprisoned in the depths of his soul. It was suave Blaine who emerged instead. In retrospect, Blaine could tell that he'd been _far _more annoying.

Holding one finger up to maintain silence, he opened his mouth to speak.

"Just a few things to pick you up on, grandfather. Firstly, it is incredibly bad form to use the word 'retarded' as an insult. As well as being factually inaccurate as I am fortunate enough not to display any of the symptoms present in person with learning difficulties, you are saying a word that is incredibly offensive to a large community of many high-functioning and courageous individuals. The term 'queer' is a more interesting one, as the gay community has kind of stolen it back for themselves. I personally don't really like it, so I'd appreciate it if you stop trying to be 'hip' and 'modern' and start respecting what _I _want. As for me 'poaching' your special question, it does seem a little _juvenile_, does it not, to stake a claim over a group of words? Language is universal across a culture, and its inherent beauty is that it is shared between people from all walks of life: a cup to you is a cup to me, a fire is a fire, a truth is a truth. It means that you can understand me when I say that my mother is absolutely not spoiled goods as a result of her medical problems, and that she and my father are far from perfect parents. They are too busy to spend time with me, and I honestly think they forget about me sometimes. But I don't for one minute think they've ever stopped loving me, just as I know that you've never let any part of you show me the slightest bit of affection in all the years I've known you."

He paused.

"I've said my piece."

He went up to his room before he shattered the illusion of calm, leaving a half-finished Christmas pudding in his wake.

When he came downstairs the next morning, it was immediately apparent that his grandfather had gone.

* * *

><p><strong>AN SOOO, what's gone down here, then? Rumblings in the junglings, my friends, that's what. I apologise that this is super long, I hope it wasn't boring. Also, be impressed that it's only taken a week for me to update. I worked my arse off this week so I could take a day for myself, and it was wonderful. Hope you enjoyed this chapter. A lot happens, yes, but Blaine's getting stronger with every day that passes. He's still oblivious, though. If you'd like an idea of what Blaine was failing to get onto the page, YouTube 'Kings Singers Windmills of Your Mind'- you won't regret it. Please review, favourite, alert, kiss under mistletoe and sing Christmas songs at the top of your voice (because _no one _is bored of Christmas yet, right?) **

**You're all wonderful. Thanks for all your kind reviews, they really do keep me going :) **

**Bye for now.**


	19. Grasping the Tail?

**Chapter 19: Grasping the Tail?**

_"The elephant has a thick skin, a head full of ivory, and as everyone who has seen a circus parade knows, proceeds best by grasping the tail of its predecessor."_

_- Adlai E. Stevenson_

* * *

><p>It would probably have been a great balm to Michael Sr.'s ego to discover that his dramatic departure caused the exit of an entire year to pale into insignificance. 2010 faded as hazily as it had arrived, bleeding into 2011 without so much as a single popped champagne cork or toast to good health. All the guests for the Anderson Hogmanay had cancelled, Michael Sr. had seen to that. No guests meant no party, no party meant no one to impress, and no one to impress meant an early night all round. All three Andersons were in bed by 10.<p>

A sleepy New Year's Day followed, no one rising before eleven. Each Anderson listened out for the sound of a kettle being boiled, an egg being fried or a toilet being flushed, not to check for signs of life but rather to prevent the inevitable awkwardness of a spontaneous conversation or unexpected meeting. Compulsory holidays were toxic, and the Andersons just didn't _do _enforced jollity. They didn't really do jollity at all, not any more.

But that didn't mean that the odd solitary holiday would go amiss for any of them. After a late rise, Michael sunk back into his favourite leather chair in the comforting surroundings of his study. Today would be a good day, mainly because it would not involve a single second of being Mike 'Always Up For A Laugh' Anderson. Michael's eyes greedily scoured the bookshelves in search of something he hadn't read yet, some virgin pages that he could curl up in and forget the world and senatorial duty and fatherly ideals and fears of failure.

But all the novels were long gone, shoved in a box somewhere in the attic so that the shelves could be used for more impressive things like political biographies, lengthy legal tracts and that beacon of boredom incarnate, Hobbes' _Leviathan_. Michael groaned as he got back onto his feet in search of coffee, immediately missing his Washington PA who was highly trained in the art of bringing him things before he even began to realise he wanted them.

Maybe he'd spend the day catching up on work. Or perhaps he'd just rest in the chair for a bit, no harm in that. He deserved it.

Now in his early fifties, he was rapidly developing the tastes of a disenchanted old man.

* * *

><p>After a lengthy battle with the coffee machine, Michael eventually emerged back into the hallway with a lukewarm cup of something vaguely resembling a medium drip.<p>

He cast his eyes down the hallway, noticing how the wallpaper had become a lot blurrier since the last time he looked. It didn't really matter, he had no real use for looking anyway.

But then a stair creaked.

And another.

And then another.

A whole staircase in quick succession.

A hint of wild, curly hair, a flash from some glasses, a glint of silver hanging from a chain.

And before long, Michael Anderson was faced with the bare chest of his very teenage son. A man's chest.

And his eyes zapped to the floor.

The person immediately began to splutter a rambling apology involving brunches and fridges and popping down for a bite to eat. Michael stared fixedly at the floor.

"Ermmm. Da - father? You okay?"

"Mmmm, yes, coffee reading, you know."

"Right," Blaine nodded, gesturing awkwardly towards the kitchen with a flailing arm.

"Right," Michael agreed, swaying in more or less the opposite direction.

Two doors closed simultaneously.

Michael sunk back down into his chair, put his feet on a footrest and let himself snooze.

But he couldn't.

Something was bothering him.

Really bothering him, because snoozing usually came very easily to him.

It was something about Blaine. That was part of it.

But there was something else, too.

Something even more troublesome.

Something that had arrived in the form of a letter, delivered that morning by a specially-appointed courier on a motorbike.

Motorbikes always meant business.

* * *

><p>In the kitchen, Blaine reached into the cupboard and grabbed a packet of something that felt like it might not melt if put in a microwave. Ignoring the scolding voice of his Head Kurt, he punched a few buttons and watched as the starchy rice-based abomination made its hypnotically circuitous journey around the microwave. With a happy beep it was done, and he retreated to his bedroom with a fork wedged into the steaming packet of rice.<p>

Today, he decided, would be a day of rest, including (but not limited to) choral arrangements, two essays and a project about citizenship that sounded the biggest yawn ever.

But for now, sleep.

Blaine Anderson had finally become a teenager.

* * *

><p>The phone began ringing about half an hour after he'd drifted off.<p>

"Blaine?"

It was his father on the internal line. All they needed was fluorescent lights and their house would be a fully-operational office environment.

"Yes?"

"Come downstairs, please."

Blaine shot back to wakefulness.

"Umm, okay. I'll be down in five minutes."

Maybe his father wanted to get to know him again. Sure, he was an ass, but what teenager _does _get on with their parents? Maybe his dad would try to patch things up and say that he finally accepted him and loved him anyway and… Blaine smiled to himself when he remembered how his father had enquired about his Harvard geography essay. Sure, it had been submitted _months _ago but still, he had remembered. That was something.

He flopped over to his mirror, grabbed a comb and tried to make his hair more perfect than usual. He blinked his contacts in and then got dressed in a v-neck, tie and trousers, desperate to rectify his former dishevelment.

Finally satisfied, he began the long walk down the stairs.

* * *

><p>Blaine knocked on the door like an errant schoolboy. It flew open seconds later, and his father greeted him with a bizarre shake of the hand. The situation was in the no man's land between casual and formal, the place where even the most seasoned of social butterflies fear to tread.<p>

"Son, take a seat."

Michael gestured at the leather chair facing his. His son's eyes were flashing at him, wide and earnest. Almost childlike. Their sincerity made him feel uncomfortable. No one had eyes like his in Washington.

A fidget from Blaine launched him back into the task in hand.

"It's time you and I had a serious discussion."

"Ummm." Blaine reddened as his mind flicked through the various options. Sex. Boyfriends. Money. College. None sounded particularly appealing.

"Err, okay."

Michael took a breath.

"I just wanted to say that I don't hold any animosity towards you for what happened over Christmas."

Blaine nodded dumbly.

"And I was quite pr-pleased with the way you stood your own. You're growing into a fine man, Blaine."

There was a pause, neither of them really knowing what to say.

"Unfortunately, there have been repercussions."

Oh god, not him and his obsession with social propriety again.

"What, that no one turned up to the party?"

Michael scoffed.

"No, if only your grandfather had stopped at that. It's very complicated and a legal minefield right now, but the long and short of it is that he wants to challenge the validity of your trust fund."

Blaine gulped. There were thousands of dollars in there, thousands of dollars that would pay for him to leave Ohio and, in an ideal situation, send him Ivywards. He sat there dumbstruck.

Michael looked him straight in the eyes.

"I'm not worried about that money, Blaine. You're smart enough to have figured out that I'm not in Washington for free, and if it comes to it I'll be willing to pay for your college education. What I do worry about is the next election."

Of course.

"And… and what another family rift would mean for us. Politically, and I guess personally too."

"Why are you telling me this? There's nothing I can do. And it doesn't affect me, I have money for college either way so I'll be outta here."

Michael shook his head sadly.

"For as long as I'm in office, you're affected by what goes on here. Yes, we live in Ohio where the average person probably isn't as politically engaged as we might like them to be. When you're in college, especially the sorts of colleges I imagine you'll be looking at, people will put two and two together and they won't make five. My reputation will be bearing down on you even if I see less of you than I do already."

Damn. Why was his father such a killjoy? And since when did he think of 'collateral damage', anyway?

"I can handle it, father."

"Dad, I'm your _dad _Blaine. And I know you can handle it, despite your little 'unsettled' episodes. What I guess I'm asking is… well… do you _want _to handle it? I'm asking what should I do about this… situation?"

Blaine couldn't really understand what his father was asking. All he could tell was that he was trying not to cry.

"Why are you asking me? Since when do you care about what I think?"

Michael looked visibly wounded.

"I saw something today, Blaine. And it's something every parent hopes never to see but also something everyone wants more than anything."

"I don't follow."

Blaine's frazzled brain couldn't be bothered with indulgent riddles right now.

"What I mean is, you're practically an adult now. Simple as that. It is every parent's nightmare to have their child grow up and go it alone, but most parents would be pleased to have raised someone with your… accomplishments. And not too far from now, you'll meet someone and get a girlfriend or maybe a partner, is that the word?"

Blaine smiled slightly bitterly and nodded, adding, "Husband eventually, I hope. Because I'm _gay_."

Michael grimaced involuntarily but was generally undeterred.

"Right. Anyway, you'll move out, probably to Cambridge and Harvard or, if you've any sense about you, New Haven and Yale."

Blaine _dreamed_ of Yale, even if his dad had gone there once upon a time. Michael wouldn't know about that, though; Blaine just sat there with a poker face.

"And after that, who knows? Sure as hell it won't involve your poor old dad. I know it's been hard for both of us, but I realised something important when I saw you earlier today."

Blaine fidgeted as he raised his eyes back to face the general direction of his father. He'd probably seen the necklace or something, oh shit...

"I just lost my father, Blaine. He'll come crawling back, condescendingly swanning in with some ridiculous compromise that'll make it seem like we're the ones grovelling at his doorstep. I'll probably accept his apology because I can't help myself, but the two of us will never be as close as we once were. I know that now. But I have to do what he says; I've been brought up that way for more than half a century, I'm not ready to change. I can't. But somehow, somewhere, you learnt to stand up for yourself. I may not… I may not understand you or your choices or even what it's like to be as smart as you obviously are, but that doesn't mean I don't value you. And now I've experienced what it's like to have someone you love turn completely on you, I don't know…. Sort of hit a bit close to home. I want to patch things up, Blaine -"

Suddenly, the chair was empty and the door slammed.

Blaine had gone.

* * *

><p>Two weeks later and the house was no easier to live in. Blaine huddled in his room after school, hunched over homework or manuscripts or anything that might mean he wouldn't have to face up to his dad and whatever it was he was trying to do. He'd thought he'd wanted his dad closer to him; a month ago he'd have died and gone to heaven if Michael had mentioned the words 'partner' and 'adult' and 'New Haven' in practically the same breath. Now, he wasn't so sure. All he could see was the past repeating itself, his own appalling eagerness to please reflecting the Michael Jr. blueprint to disgusting perfection. That, mixed with the revulsion he felt because he'd ran away. Again.<p>

This time, he'd run farther and longer than before. He'd been going out more than ever, driving up to Lima and hanging out at The Bean with the McKinley glee club almost every day. He mostly felt like a spare part, hanging around kids who probably made all sorts of assumptions based on his hair and uniform and awkwardness. But somewhere between decapping his coffee and dunking his biscotti, he'd recalled some dimly-remembered rule about fielding a reduced team and became the hero of the moment. He'd even cheered the girls on when they'd pitched up to replace the mutineers, cheering away the lump in his throat that came whenever anything reminded him of what, or rather whom, he had lost.

Thankfully Burt was there with him and Kurt on the bleachers, the man who'd wrap him in a huge hug and pat him on the back whenever The Titans managed to score. He was almost as good as Kurt at reminding him what he'd gained. Kurt had given him not only a great friendship, but also a taste of what things _could _be like. He hadn't had a familial connection like this one since he'd known the Blakes, and like Orrin, Kurt had welcomed him into family dinners like it was nothing at all to bring a friend along. The Hummels and Blakes were so comfortable with each other that it was always easy to fit in one more around the dining table. Blaine suspected that the same would not be applicable to the Andersons.

The only trouble was that Blaine became sort of addicted. He craved the spectacle of the half-time show, something that Dalton would either think beneath its dignity or not think of at all. He got to know some of the personalities that made up the McKinley glee club, and became accustomed to the same quirks and eccentricities that would make him fidget out of sympathetic awkwardness if they were ever displayed at Dalton. Mercedes and Rachel gave so much of themselves despite barely knowing him; he repaid them by gelling his hair extra close to his head and hiding behind the dark blue and red armour of the Dalton blazer.

At least he wasn't at home. His father was upset with him, he could tell that much from the pained expression that passed over his face whenever they caught glimpses of each other. It wasn't disgust or even anger, it was just plain sorrow. And Blaine just couldn't handle it.

He wasn't allowed to be sad, so no one else should be. It was hardly his fault his father had just realised what a shit parent he was, and what shit parents he'd had. Forgiveness didn't come with the wave of a fairy wand.

* * *

><p>Blaine was moody all day, every day. Schoolwork was as boring as ever, there were no choral champs for a while and no school events to prepare the Warblers for. Motivation was low as everyone slumped into their January Blues, a situation not improved by the weather which tried to bite the tips of Blaine's nose and ears off whenever he so much as glanced outside. Life sucked.<p>

At least the Warbler rehearsals were going kind of well, despite the lack of motivation. He was kind of pleased with _Bills, Bills, Bills_, it worked. But it wasn't quite astounding enough. And he was getting bored of David's back flips.

Choral rehearsals, on the other hand, were massively below par. The hymns were acceptable but hugely forgettable which, Blaine knew, is actually worse than being heroically bad. Harmonies were substandard, Kurt was having problems being so high above everyone else and nothing matched the fullness of sound Blaine tormented himself with in his head. Blaine found himself standing in the freezing chapel, scuffing his shoes against the ridge created by the edge of a rug on the stone floor, _so _frustrated that the guys just couldn't get it right. He spent the entire three hour rehearsal with his head in his hands.

As soon as it was over, he bounded out of the chapel and crossed the quad in the direction of the main building. Maybe he'd go and read in the library or find Kurt or -

Sadly, his destiny held everything but peace.

"Blaine, wait up! Dude, what's your problem? Is it your time of the month or something?"

Oh God, he could _not_ be dealing with David right now. This day couldn't get worse.

"Hey Blaine, what's up? You seem kind of moody."

Oh, right, it could. Wes had arrived.

Blaine scowled down at the gravel.

"I don't know. I just feel grumpy." His breath froze in the air, making him look like he was steaming.

"No shit. Man, I don't know what to suggest," Wes responded, pausing thoughtfully. After half a minute of abundant swathes of awkward silence, he seemed to have reached a conclusion. "It seems to me that you're being fast-tracked through the grumpy teenager stage. Not to worry, though, cuz I'm sure you'll emerge middle aged in no time. You're halfway there already with that granddad hairstyle of yours."

Blaine hated it when they made fun of his hair. It was a really personal thing, that was all. He found himself grinning good-humouredly regardless, keen not to offend anyone. Damn it. Damn him.

But Wes didn't stop at diagnosis; his pre-pre-med brain wanted to analyse, rationalise and _fix_. So he continued.

"But to be honest, Blaine, you've had it pretty rough this last year. Maybe you're finally relaxed enough to just be a teenager again."

The annoying thing was that he was probably right.

"I hate it. It's only been happening since Christmas when my grandfather's been out of my hair–"

David snorted. "I can't imagine there'd be much space left with all the gunk you've got in there. I'm at the point of questioning whether it's gel or just a manifestation of a lack of personal hygiene."

Blaine just scowled. He was not up for creative rebuffs today.

David was, unfortunately, feeling a lot more creative.

"You know what you need?" he said a few minutes later, his face lighting up like he'd just developed a nega-calorific chocolate bar.

Blaine couldn't decide whether to continue frowning or to look up quizzically in the hope of a solution. His face contorted in a deeply unflattering way as he attempted both.

And then, David launched his Big Idea into the world.

"You need to get laid."

* * *

><p><strong>Ooh hello…<strong>

**More coming soon. Thanks once again for all your kind and encouraging words :)**

**A great big thank you must be sent over the Atlantic in the direction of one Fluffy_Nouget, who came up with the quote for this chapter and saved us all from the misery of yet another Medieval bestiary. Many, many thanks! **

**This chapter is all about legacy: fathers and their fathers and fathers and their sons. And idiotic advice from idiotic (teenage boy) friends. Hope it was authentic, it's the kind of stupid thing my brother would say.**

**Will be updating soon as I have been a busy bunny (in a non-Playboy way) by finishing all my work a whole week in advance. KEEN.**

**Bye for now. Hope you enjoyed it! See you soon :)**


	20. Falling

**Chapter 20: Falling**

_It has such a nature that if it has fallen down it cannot get up. Now it falls down when it leans against a tree to sleep, for it has no joints in its knees. Then the hunter makes a cut partly through the tree, so that the elephant when it has leant against it may fall down together with it. But as it falls, it cries out loudly, and at once a great elephant appears, but is not able to lift it up._

- British Library Harley MS 3244 (c. 1260 CE)

* * *

><p>"You need to get laid."<p>

So, it was out there.

Blaine could feel the blood pumping into his cheeks, wishing the ground would swallow him up so he could melt into the Earth's fiery core. He was okay with the idea of sex, he thought. It wasn't that much of a big deal, he thought about it a bit sometimes, he did his own laundry. But he wasn't like some of the guys he'd overheard who seemed _obsessed_, he was just… Well, he hadn't really thought about that side of himself too much.

"Yeah Blainers, you need to punch that V-card before you turn into a wrinkly old man. What's so difficult about it, anyway? I mean, you're _hot_. And sex, it just takes the pressure off for a while. You don't have to _marry _the person."

Blaine's arms contorted themselves into all sorts of uncomfortable shapes as Wes and David continued.

"Yeah," said David, "I mean, when you're a teenager, it's all about exploration. You gotta get good at this stuff before you go to college, otherwise there will come a time when it's plain embarrassing not to have even _made out _withanyone before. Just get it over with: it feels good, it'll take your mind off stuff, and it'll stop you being such a prude."

He knocked his arm playfully against Blaine's as he threw him a wink.

"'m not a prude," Blaine mumbled, believing himself less with every word he spoke.

"Decided," said a suddenly authoritative Wes. "Blaine's going to lose that V, if only to stop us having to put up with his newfound grumpiness. Now, there are several things to consider. First, we need to find you a more experienced guy. I know from my own experience that two virgins together is a big no-no."

Wes shivered at this point, no doubt recalling the incident of his own virginity loss with Laura, his 'girlfriend' at the time. Apparently it had been awful for both parties, probably something to do with an over-ambitious position chosen from the 'Advanced' section of a GQ sex advice page.

"Okay, so Blaine, who do you know that might be up for it? They don't even have to be gay, just think of someone."

"Wes, I'm not really down with this, y'know. I just don't really think that's who I–"

"Shut up Blaine, you're not going to find Prince Charming or Fairy Godfather or Mushu or whatever it is you're looking for first time round. Just get a lay and be done with it; you'll thank us later, I promise."

"Yeah Blaine, I mean, it's not that much of a big deal. It's not like you turn into a different person or a monster or anything. Sure, it's a bit scary the first time, but you'll find your groove really soon. You're smart, you'll learn the lovin' boogie in no time. Just do it, no regrets."

Blaine looked back up at his friends. Was _everyone _screwing around except him? God, maybe he _was_ a prude. And if sex was this great, why wasn't he doing it? But there was a slight concern that had been nagging at him for a while. Maybe Wes and David would know. Maybe he should just _ask _them.

He took the bull by the horns.

"Umm, David," he began awkwardly, "I'm not even really sure I know what 'punching a V card' is. I mean –"

David adopted a high-class female British accent. "Blaine, it is very simple. V card means virginity. Virginity means not having had sex. Punching virginity means it's gone. BAM. Simple as."

Blaine rolled his eyes. "That's not what I mean." He hoped that would be enough convey his slight issue with the whole thing without having to actually _say _it out loud. Man, this was awkward.

Wes and David's matching expressions of confusion immediately let him know that his wishes were in vain.

So he persevered.

"For straight people, it's simple," he began. "With gay people, not so much."

Damn, his friends were still confused.

"With gay people, it's not so clear cut, you know? Like, what even _is_ virginity if you're gay?"

David's face lit up with a dumb realisation.

"It's all the same, Blaine. Dick in vagina, dick in asshole. No difference."

Blaine couldn't believe that they were being so incredibly crass about the whole thing. He cast his eyes back down to the floor, which he addressed with a barely audible mumble. "I don't think I agree. I mean, I don't really know where I draw the line, but for me, I don't think it's _there_."

"Oh," said Wes, "so you want to _be _fucked?"

Blaine shook his head violently; that wasn't what he'd meant. The prospect didn't seem so bad when the images began to flick through his head, even though he was too hot and bothered from his discomfort to really entertain them for more than a second. But that wasn't what he was talking about, he meant something _completely_ different.

Suddenly angry, frustrated and acutely embarrassed, he matched their crudeness in a way he hoped they would understand.

"I don't think that virginity is lost at anal sex, okay? I think it's lost before that. Maybe I'm a prude, maybe I'm sexually frustrated, but I don't need you two to matchmake for me."

And then, ignoring every one of the official Dalton notices telling him not to, he strode off across the lawn in the direction of his car.

* * *

><p>Blaine had hoped that would be the end of it, he really had. But whether he was sitting at his desk, lying on his bed or typing on his Mac, it was literally <em>all <em>he could think about. Sex sex sex. Sexsexsex. Boys. Sex.

First, there were the bare bones of it. He was a boy. He was a teenager. He wanted sex. Sure, thatwhole desire thing had been latent for a while, covered up by the pain of a year of grief. But now, for some reason, something had changed. He just couldn't stop thinking about it. And yeah, he wanted it.

Then there was the issue that hadn't even entered his mind before today. Sure, he'd known when his friends had had their first times. Over the last year especially, he'd traded many a high five, given some jokey shoulder pats and listened to a few hilarious and quite frankly terrifying tales about condom misuse and other awkward moments. But it had happened so gradually, his friends losing their virginities one by one, that he'd barely noticed any change at all. Now, it felt like he was the only virgin left. And everyone seemed to know it.

In his heart of hearts, he knew it was stupid. Having sex didn't make you more of a person, it didn't give you a special insight into life or any kind of superpower. It just meant you'd found someone who'd let them stick it in you, or who'd let you stick it in them. That was all it was. But it was something he hadn't done that his friends had, and if there was one thing Blaine couldn't stand, it was being patronised. Wes and David and probably everyone else at Dalton thought he was naïve and inexperienced and stupid, despite his huge knowledge of everything that came up on the curriculum and his perfect GPA. And he couldn't stand it.

He knew for sure he was 'ready', whatever that meant. He was sure he'd be able to do it if the situation ever came up, sure he wouldn't run away or blush or do anything really embarrassing. But there was something nagging at him, some dimly remembered words exchanged while he'd been at a computer screen.

Orrin.

What would he say? He'd been older than Blaine was now when they'd kissed, right? And he'd been all for romance, yet he'd had the same concerns Blaine was having now. Maybe everyone had this problem, this millstone hanging around their necks. But then Blaine remembered Orrin's patient explanation of all those STDs, the importance of trust and communication and the idea that maybe, just maybe, feelings _do _make it better.

He needed to have feelings for the person he fucked.

Blaine suddenly found himself thinking through a list of possible candidates, quickly establishing that he just didn't have that many gay friends. There were Jeff and Nick, who were always a little questionable in their preferences, but they only seemed to have eyes for each other and that was that. Then there was Connor, who Blaine often saw climbing into convertibles with seemingly interchangeable girls and boys. But Connor probably had all sorts of nasties, and Blaine knew he didn't match the tall blonde archetype Connor was looking for anyway.

That left Karofsky and Kurt. Karofsky was a big no, just no. Blaine's one encounter with him had resulted in being pummelled, and he was sure that the intense stench of BO would be ingrained in his nostrils for life.

And Kurt. Oh Kurt. Blaine thought back to all the time he'd spent with him, trying to think of anything that would suggest he might be able to help him out. But then he remembered Kurt saying that Karofsky had taken his first kiss, and surely he would have told him about any developments since they'd known each other; they practically lived in each other's pockets nowadays. No, Kurt was definitely a virgin. And, more to the point, Blaine _needed _him more than he needed air: yes he wanted sex, but he wanted to keep his friendship with Kurt more than that. He knew that casual sex had a habit of complicating things like that. And Kurt deserved better than stupid old him for his first time; he would want to be in a relationship, and that was something Blaine just couldn't do right now. Not even if Kurt wanted it. Which he obviously didn't.

Blaine sighed as he flopped back onto his bed. Man, he was going to be a virgin _forever_.

"BLAINE." It was his mom calling from downstairs.

"YEAH?" He bellowed back.

"I got some cupcakes from my meeting. Want one?"

"Yeah, I'll be down in a sec."

Blaine hurried up onto his feet. Food was always good, especially complimentary conference food.

He walked into the kitchen, and immediately saw an enormous pile of cupcakes on the breakfast bar.

"Woah, that's a lot of cupcakes." God, why did he sound such a _moron _lately?

"Yeah, not so many people turned up to the conference, unfortunately. Turns out there aren't too many people interested in the ethnocentric environmental socio-economic considerations of the use of washing machines. Who'd have thought it? I was only there for face, the thing bored my ass off. "

"Oh," replied Blaine, his mouth already full of cake.

"So, how's everything going? I feel like we haven't spoken in ages."

"That's cuz we haven't," Blaine replied bluntly. Karen looked slightly hurt but was ultimately unfazed.

"Your dad sorted out the trust fund thing, y'know. Wasn't it good of him to get on that before the situation escalated?"

"Mmm." Blaine half-agreed, still freaked out by the conversation he'd had with his father a week ago. Karen must have picked up on their prolonged silence. At least things were easier now Michael had returned to Washington.

"Mind you, your grandfather's probably planning something much worse now. I wonder what he'll do, I mean…"

Blaine dozed off. He hated thinking about the man; it was just so much easier to forget about his existence. And, when he thought about it, nothing would infuriate his grandfather more than complete obliteration from his thoughts.

"Blaine? Blaine?"

He snapped back to attention.

"Sorry."

"Never mind. I was just asking about that boy you like. Jeremy, is it?"

"Jeremiah," Blaine replied unthinkingly, "And I'm sure he's fine."

But JEREMIAH.

Jeremiah _was _fine.

Jeremiah was gay.

Jeremiah was 23.

Meaning that Jeremiah had probably had a few boyfriends and lots and lots of sex.

Jeremiah had said to call him whenever he wanted.

That could only mean one thing, right?

Sorted.

"Bye mom, I have to go make a call."

"Bye Blaine, take care. I'm off to Washington tonight."

Hearing this, Blaine crossed the kitchen and wrapped his mom in a half-hearted hug. She messed his hair out of its gel and inhaled deeply.

Soon he broke out of the embrace, and before long he was climbing the stairs two at a time, eager to make it back to his room where the phone lay waiting.

* * *

><p>Ring. Ring. Blaine's stomach twisted up into knots as he waited. Ring.<p>

Suddenly.

"Oh, hey Blaine. How are you?"

"Yeah fine. Hey, can we meet up?" Blaine's voice sounded disgustingly weedy.

Jeremiah gasped. That was a good thing, right?

"Of course, Blaine. I told you before that whenever you want me, I'm here for you."

Wow.

"Sooo, when and where do you want to meet?" Blaine was feeling increasingly confident. All his nerves were turning into excitement.

"Umm, The Meeting Place at North Hills Mall like before? The one next to my GAP? February 4th? Would that be alright for you?"

"Yeah, fantastic."

"See you then, then."

"See you."

And there it was.

Blaine immediately began to formulate thoughts in his head. He wouldn't, he decided, approach the subject of sex on the fourth. That might seem a bit forward, a bit desperate. No, he'd test the water on the fourth. Then, all being well, he'd ask ten days later. What could be more romantic than losing his virginity on Valentine's Day? His head filled with thoughts of pale hands, timid blue eyes, sure but trusting fingertips.

Yeah, he was definitely a romantic.

* * *

><p>The fourth of February couldn't come quickly enough. Every morning he'd check the date on his phone, just to make sure it hadn't crept up on him without him noticing. When the night of the third finally did come round, he couldn't sleep at all; tomorrow, he'd be meeting the man of his dreams. Hours of Facebook stalking over the past fortnight had convinced him that Jeremiah could be much more than just an initiator: maybe they could have a relationship, their own beautiful love story. And, when he'd thought things couldn't get any better, he'd found out that the GAP offered <em>very<em> generous discounts to spouses. Blaine didn't know how to have a relationship, how to be a boyfriend, but that wouldn't matter because Jeremiah would probably tell him exactly what he needed to do to be perfect. How to be perfect boyfriend: that was what Blaine wanted to be most of all.

The day at Dalton dragged more than any day had in the history of the world. Blaine agonised over what to wear for the date because that's what it was, right? In the end, he settled on his school uniform: smart, but not trying to impress. Certainly not predatory. He didn't want to give the wrong impression. And, he thought as he gazed at himself in the mirror, that blazer did wonderful things for his height. He stood tall. He looked _good_.

Walking into The Meeting Place that day gave him the same buzz as being on stage at the Southern Theater had. The nerves that twisted in his gut made him feel on top of the world, the excitement gave him a bounce in his step.

Then he saw him.

Jeremiah.

Wow. What a head of hair.

"Hey," Jeremiah said before Blaine had had a chance to properly compose himself.

"Hey Jeremiah." The smile on Blaine's face threatened to split his skull in two, despite his lack of preparation.

"So, what's up? I was really worried about you."

Oh, that wasn't good. Keep cool, Blaine.

"Nothing, just felt like hanging out."

"So, what's been going on?"

"Yeah, my dad's been fine, mom's fine." Blaine couldn't be bothered with the details.

The pair launched into a conversation about their political families, about the GAP, about Dalton.

But then.

"Any boyfriends?"

Ah, Jeremiah was making the move.

"Nope, got my eye on someone though."

Blaine hoped that his subtle eye movement would convey a deeper meaning. It did.

"Well, you should make a move. Hot guys go like hot cakes."

Blaine laughed deeply and heartily. Wow, Jeremiah had such a profound way with words. And this, this was nothing short of an invitation.

"I guess I will, then."

"Great," Jeremiah grinned. "You know, Blaine, I'm so glad I can sort of be your mentor. I wish I'd had one when I was growing up."

Like, a sex mentor?

Blaine found himself grinning idiotically.

"Yeah, it's great."

"Anyway," said Jeremiah, rattling an empty coffee cup, "It was good to catch up. The GAP has a lock-in tonight, so I'd better get to work. Hope everything goes well. I'll be in touch soon."

Great, Blaine was in there. So to speak.

"Bye, see you soon Jeremiah."

They shared a hug. It wasn't close, but Jeremiah was probably just keeping his cards close to his chest for their special night.

Blaine couldn't wait until Valentine's Day.

* * *

><p>As the fourteenth drew closer, Blaine began to make a terrifying realisation.<p>

How on earth do you ask someone for sex?

He guessed he could just go down the direct route and _ask_, but that wasn't _at all_ becoming or gentlemanly. Then there were the subtle codes, but that method would probably take more than one meeting and Blaine didn't want to wait. The fourteenth was the day it would happen; he had decided on it and he'd stick to it. In five days, his virginity would be no more. And he couldn't wait.

As it turned out, a single meeting with Kurt in The Lima Bean one day after school was more productive than the hours of thought he'd already invested. The whole place was decked out with love hearts and merch, so much so that Blaine basically wanted to buy out the whole store. He especially liked that puppy love toy. Especially the smoochy 'I love you' that came each time you pressed a button.

But Kurt didn't get Valentine's Day. Not at all. Not even after he'd explained the appeal of laying everything on the line, the joy of risking your heart in the hope that someone would take it and fly with it, just like Jeremiah was going to do. But after a few minutes, Kurt was clearly beginning to pick up on the strength of the attraction between himself and Jeremiah, but it was probably plain for all to see. And even unromantic Kurt seemed excited when he'd mentioned his new plan – singing to someone on Valentine's Day.

It was clearly a great idea.

He bought them a cupid cookie to split in celebration.

* * *

><p>As soon as Blaine got home, he launched himself up the stairs and got to work on <em>When I Get You Alone <em>and _Silly Love Songs_. _Silly Love Songs _could be a back up if he chickened out of _When I Get You Alone_, a song about wanting to whisk Jeremiah off to somewhere secluded where they could share their love.

Love.

That's what it was, right? But how do you know?

Blaine ran through his imaginary checklist.

He felt jittery around Jeremiah. He wanted to have sex with Jeremiah. Granted he wanted to have sex anyway, but he especially wanted it with him.

Yeah, that was love.

Love was some kind of chemical reaction to drive the human race to reproduce, right? If so, his feelings fitted the bill perfectly. Well, apart from the reproducing part.

But then something made him think about the last time he'd told a boy he loved him. That time in a parking lot. Over a year ago now. One thing was certain - this didn't feel anything like that had. But then he hadn't wanted to sleep with Orrin, so it was different. Different because he was pretty sure he'd never find anything like that friendship for as long as he lived. He was okay with second best.

* * *

><p>Blaine felt on fire when he woke up the next morning. Operation GAP Attack was a-go. First thing was first, he needed to put in a call to the shop to check that Jeremiah would actually be in store on Valentine's Day. It would be awkward as hell if they all showed up and he wasn't there.<p>

A quick call pretending to be one of Jeremiah's loyal customers established that Blaine had dodged a massive bullet: the junior manager didn't have a shift on Valentine's Day as he'd be on a clothes folding course. He would be in store on the twelfth, though.

Great, two days fewer to wait.

As soon as Blaine pulled up at Dalton, he went on the hunt for Wes. Finding him, he begged and begged for an emergency Warblers' meeting, saying it was urgent situation requiring a radical solution. Perhaps slightly hyperbolic, but Wes would be down with this - hadn't he been the one telling Blaine to get laid in the first place?

The time was set for morning recess. Blaine strutted down the corridor on top of the world, stumbling upon a weekend-outfit-plotting Kurt just outside the Choir Room. He grabbed the boy's shoulders as they entered the room together, the excitement too much to take.

"Esteemed council, I'll be brief. Simply put, I'm in love."

Their hum of appreciation let him know that they'd end up going along with anything, even the radical idea of performing off-campus. After a fierce but expected altercation, Kurt stood up and told everyone about stepping outside comfort zones, the benefits of hostile crowds and cats in nursing homes. Everyone was convinced, everyone said yes. Everyone except Kurt, who just looked a bit stunned.

Anyway, he was gonna get Jeremiah. But Kurt –

By now, the boy was looking kinda sad. Maybe he wouldn't have anyone to spend Valentine's Day with, that was probably it. Blaine vowed to make a special effort that evening, just to cheer his friend up.

He caught up with him just as everyone was leaving.

"Hey, Kurt, wanna hang out tonight?"

Kurt didn't even look at him, muttering a quick "No, hanging out with my girls" at the floor.

Poor Kurt, he must have wanted a date really badly to be that upset.

Blaine's stomach gave an involuntary lurch.

Man, he was _more _than ready for a mid-morning snack.

* * *

><p>A brief after-school rehearsal and The Warblers had both songs down to a tee. As time went by it became easier and easier for them to learn Blaine's arrangements, partly because Blaine knew what to write and partly because The Warblers knew what to expect.<p>

By the next day, they were more than ready. Which was just as well, because they'd be performing in a matter of hours.

The lessons passed sluggishly, less interesting than ever. What did Blaine care for momentum and impulse when he was going to lose his virginity in less than six hours? He was so _bored_.

But evening came round eventually, and before long the group was assembled just outside the North Hills Mall.

"Right," Blaine said, trying to sound authoritative despite the twisting in his gut, "We'll go in there and browse for a bit. Then I will nod to Wes, who will conduct you all in to start us off."

The Warblers gradually filtered into the shop, until only Kurt and Blaine remained outside.

"Well go on then, I want to see this guy," Kurt urged.

"Give me a second."

"No, the longer you hold off, the less likely you are to go through with it."

"You're right, let's go."

Together, they walked through the door and –

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

FUCK, all the metal in his leg had set off the alarm. _Of course _it would happen today. When he was trying to get a guy. When Kurt was there. Blaine didn't want Kurt to find out this way, not now, not ever. Why was the universe always against him? Everyone in the store was now watching them and the other people in the doorway, each person trying to spot a thief as if it was an identity parade.

Fortunately, a security guard waved them into the store before Blaine had even had the chance to present the little plastic card he'd had to carry everywhere since that horrendous November night. It had sat there in his wallet every day since, the little x-rayed image of his leg providing a constant reminder that even his physical healing was only skin-deep. He'd never set an alarm off before – apparently, it was rare and depended on factors as various as how much other metal was on your person and the frequency of the alarm system.

Today was clearly his unlucky day.

Jeremiah appeared from the staff door minutes after the store had settled into the disappointment of not being caught up in Grand Theft Gap. Blaine found himself leaning over to Kurt, pointing out Jeremiah to him for the first time. He couldn't really read his reaction, but maybe he was distracted by the beauty of the boy folding sweaters. Blaine couldn't see why his technique would need any improvement.

And oh God, the moment was drawing nearer and nearer. That romantic moment when he'd lay it all on the line. But something about the atmosphere of the shop was off, something just wasn't sitting right.

He wanted to run.

But The Warblers had worked too hard and too long for them to give up now.

Kurt steered him out onto the shop floor. And when he told Blaine he was amazing, and that he'd be loved, and that everyone would fall for him, a part of him started to believe it. Before he knew it he was nodding to Wes. It was time to get the show on the road.

And it was a show.

The shoppers were into it.

Blaine was into it.

David did a back flip.

And it went by in a blur.

Blaine was so sure of himself that he even improvised with some cool pink shades and a pair of socks.

But Jeremiah was there to meet him at the till with an expression of pure horror on his face.

He fed the socks through the till in awkward silence, as all the shoppers and staff stared in their direction.

"Thanks, have a nice day."

WHAT? Jeremiah was pretending he didn't even know him?

"Jeremiah," Blaine hissed, "I'm sorta asking you out."

The other man just walked off. That was it, it was done.

Blaine was in a daze, barely registering the subdued exit of his fellow Warblers. He hung around the shop a bit, glaring at all the shoppers who snatched glances in his direction. He had nearly yelled at the lady who'd congratulated him on his voice and said there were plenty more fish in the sea, but Kurt had pulled him away before his anger bubbled to the surface.

Thank god for Kurt.

But he was pulling him in the direction of the alarms.

And that could only mean one thing.

Yep.

BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP.

It seemed even angrier than before.

"Alright guys," said the security guard, "This is the second time. I'm gonna need to see your receipts from all the stuff you bought today, and then I'll have to give you a pat down. Follow me."

They traipsed behind him as he led them to a back room. Once they were there, the man looked searchingly at Blaine.

"You first. I must say, this is a different method of stealin' stuff, so congrats on that. The whole sing-songin' thing, I can't fault your ambition. Anyway, let's see your bag and receipt."

"Umm, can I speak to you in private for a second first?"

Kurt looked at him bewilderedly, clearly thinking Blaine was some kind of hardcore shoplifter.

"Anything you say can be said in front of him. He'll be in the courtroom wit'ya if you're not careful."

"Umm."

Things were going from bad to worse.

Blaine would have to come clean. He looked over at Kurt with a pained expression of apology plastered across his face.

"Umm, well last year I had to have an operation where I had a metal rod inserted down the length of my shin bone after an… ummm… accident. I have this card, see."

The man peered down at the card and then back at the receipt. Blaine looked across at Kurt, who had paled to a ghostly white.

"And the singin'? What was that? Is this card even real?"

"Sir, honestly, I wasn't shoplifting. This is just a huge misunderstanding. It was a public performance for one of the employees that went badly wrong."

The man patted Blaine on the back.

"I was just messin' with you, those damned medical rods are always setting off the scanners. I believe you. And you got talent, kid."

He dismissed with no further words. Blaine winced as the alarms beeped yet again while he and Kurt made their unceremonious exit.

This, without question, was the most embarrassing day of his life. Not the worst, far from the worst, but the most embarrassing.

And now he'd have to face the music.

* * *

><p>"So," began Kurt as they sat on the bench facing The GAP, that fateful bag of purchases sitting as far away from them as possible. But he didn't say anything else, he just left that sentence hanging.<p>

Maybe he was asking about… damn.

"Umm, yeah, my leg is sorta 10% metal. From a… uh… accident."

His leg throbbed with the half-truth. But he wasn't ready to tell Kurt. Not yet. Not ever.

"I meant the song," Kurt said quietly. "Not really terribly appropriate, was it?"

"Was it too much?"

His non-response said it all.

"Yeah, it was too much."

And then, to top it off, Jeremiah emerged from the store.

Maybe he'd been secretly flattered, maybe he'd still want Blaine, maybe –

"Jeremiah! Hey!

"What the hell were you doing?"

He hadn't liked it? Not even deep down?

"What?"

"I just got fired. You can't just bust a groove in the middle of somebody else's workplace."

"But they loved it."

"Well my boss didn't. And neither did I. No one here knows I'm gay."

Could you really be fired just for being gay? He supposed having a teenage boy in a school uniform serenading an employee may not have given the best impression, but – Kurt butted in to save the day.

"Can I be honest? Just with the hair, I think they do."

That was true. Blaine nearly laughed. Nearly.

"Blaine, let's just be clear here: we got coffee twice, we're not dating."

Blaine's stomach hit the floor. He didn't feel like laughing any more.

"If we were, I'd get arrested because you're underage."

Man, life sucked. And not in a good way.

And then he got a patronising shoulder pat from Jeremiah just to top it off. Kurt looked somewhere between sympathetic and highly amused.

At that moment, Blaine felt like kicking every damn love heart on the planet into a massive, haemoglobic fireball of death and destruction.

And it was only February 12th: he'd still have to endure the horror of the day itself. Fuck it.

* * *

><p>Blaine left the Academy Chapel the next day after many sympathetic glances and shoulder pats. Wes said it was good he'd <em>tried<em>, David suggested that he might try Grindr. Kurt followed him up the path in silence before asking him to join him for coffee.

So they did.

Before long, they'd made it to The Lima Bean. The whole shop was fastidiously decked out in love hearts; there wasn't a single square inch of shelf space that didn't contain some pink lovey-dovey abomination. Gaudy, that was the word for it. That was what this was.

He'd never been so embarrassed, not even at King's Island.

"I just – I can't believe I made it all up in my head."

And then, Kurt made him feel even worse.

"Okay, can I ask you something? Because we've always been completely honest with each other. You and I – we hang out, we sing flirty duets together, you know my coffee order. Was I supposed to think that that was nothing?"

Huh?

"What do you mean?"

"I thought the guy that you wanted to ask out on Valentine's Day…" He looked straight at Blaine, "Was me."

Oh.

_Oh._

Kurt liked him. Liked him, liked him.

"Wow." He paused, trying to take it in. "I really am clueless."

Blaine suddenly realised that he'd have to be careful. Really careful.

"Look, Kurt."

He took a breath.

And then he told him something. Something he hadn't really told anyone before.

"I don't know what I'm doing. I pretend like I do, and I know how to act it out in song, but the truth is, I've never really been _anyone's _boyfriend."

He wasn't perfect. And now he'd probably messed everything up with Kurt, he probably wouldn't even want to be his friend any more. Kurt knew he had metal in his leg, Kurt knew he was a total idiot with no sense of grace or decorum, Kurt knew he was a virgin.

"Me neither."

So he probably wouldn't care about that last thing. Not that it mattered, Blaine had been stupid to think that it did. But those other things… Blaine wasn't Blaine Anderson, just as Blaine Anderson wasn't Blaine. And now Kurt knew it. Who was he kidding, Kurt deserved way better than Blaine and Blaine Anderson put together. He just didn't know it yet. Blaine couldn't bear to let him down like that.

Because Kurt was _Kurt_, put together and strong. And Blaine was a flailing idiot with barely any idea of which way was up. A flailing idiot who _needed _Kurt, who would continue to need Kurt for many years to come. A flailing idiot who couldn't afford to risk it all on some stupid high school fling.

Blaine had to let Kurt down gently. He knew better than anyone what it was like to get your hopes dashed. This was the best thing for them in the long term, he was sure of it.

"Let me be really clear about something. I really, really care about you, but as you and about twenty mortified shoppers saw, I'm not very good at romance. I don't wanna screw this up."

Kurt gulped like he was trying not to cry, but Blaine knew it was for the best. He'd only let Kurt down even more if they let everything they had go when he screwed up further along the line.

"So it's just like _When Harry Met Sally_, but I get to play Meg Ryan."

Blaine laughed.

"Deal."

Wait?

"Don't they, uh, get together in the end?"

But Kurt was ordering for him before either of them could say anything more. Medium drip, just as he liked it.

"You know what? I think I got something for us to do on Valentine's Day."

Maybe, just maybe, Kurt would find a way to save him from the horror of tomorrow.

* * *

><p>Kurt had been planning weddings since he was two, and it showed.<p>

In less than twenty four hours, he had booked a venue, invited his friends and fixed up transportation for The Warblers. And, somewhere along the line, found a bright red shiny microphone.

It was a Lonely Hearts Club dinner. Perfect for Blaine's lonely heart.

And the evening, that had looked like it would be a night full of embarrassment and awkwardness, was suddenly lifted with song and the upbeat mood of the New Directions. Everyone was getting on, each group gave hearty performances and Kurt got to see his friends.

And somehow, despite wanting to hide deep underground where not even earthworms would seek him out, Blaine had fun.

Then, in the distance, behind the rabble and chatter, he heard it.

"And to all the singles out there, this is our year."

Maybe, hopefully, Kurt would be right.

* * *

><p><strong>AN Two updates in one weekend? Who am I? What have I become? Hope you enjoyed it :) I think this is the most I've written in a single weekend...**

**A quick note on the epigraph - during the Middle Ages, there was this bizarre notion that elephants had no knees. In order to sleep, it was thought that the animals leant against trees. Yeah. So Kurt is kind of a tree here. Blaine is scared of losing him. I think this is probably the weirdest epigraph yet!  
><strong>

**Also, a very happy 25th birthday to Darren! **


	21. Mice

**Chapter 21: Mice**

_If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.  
>If an elephant has its foot on the tail of a mouse and you say that you are neutral, the mouse will not appreciate your neutrality.<em>

- Desmond Tutu

On the importance of saying what you think and standing up for what you believe.

* * *

><p>Lunchtime of February 15th found Blaine Anderson slinking down the Dalton corridors in the direction of the pool. His eyes never drifted from their intense study of the marble flagstones, sweeping from skirting board to skirting board in the motion of a blind man's cane. Perhaps, if he looked hard enough, he'd melt into the floor and be spared the sympathetic glances and half smiles that had been directed at him for three days straight. Everyone seemed to know what a foolish idiotic whore he, Blaine Anderson, had been. And it stung.<p>

In desperate need of some alone time, Blaine had decided against eating lunch at the high table traditionally occupied by the Chapel Choir. For the first time in months, he was going to attend one of Coach Wheeler's additional training sessions in the hope that a swim workout might, maybe, perhaps, calm him down. With his faithful St. Kennie's kit bag slung over his shoulder, he stepped through the automatic doors into the dank warmth of the leisure complex foyer. He paused for a second before darting towards the changing room, his mind already clearing thanks to the comforting smell of distant chlorine that had accompanied him, for better or worse, for the greater part of his life.

After changing quickly, he shivered slightly as he stepped out of the changing rooms and onto the poolside.

"Hey Anderson," Coach Wheeler bellowed, "Good to have you here!"

Blaine smiled softly at him over the water and raised his arm in a small wave. Positioning himself on one of the blocks, he crouched down and allowed his muscles to flicker as they stored up their power. Finally, gloriously, he swooped into the pool in a graceful dive.

And as he tore up the water, ripple by ripple and wave by wave, he remembered exactly why swimming was so good for him. There was no sound besides that of his exhaled breath, no perceptible movement aside from the steady stream of bubbles that tickled his face before popping at the pool's surface. No judgmental glances, no patronising or pitying words.

But silence also meant he was alone with his thoughts.

And they weren't good ones.

Why was he an idiot? Why was he suddenly so desperate to have sex when he'd been alone all this time? Whydid he _ever _think he was in love with Jeremiah? Why was he always so damn eager to please? Why had he put himself in such a vulnerable position with Jeremiah when he knew better than anyone what vulnerability could lead to? Why was he such a _whore_? Was it even possible to be a virgin and a whore at the same time?

Who even is Blaine Anderson anyway?

And he grew angrier and angrier at himself for being such a massive tool who'd gone against everything he'd always promised himself he'd be. For being so different from who he'd thought he was.

He was an idiot. Prick. Whore. Freak.

Coward.

Moving onto fly, he thrashed all his anger out on the placid water. Every stroke caused an almighty splash, every dolphin kick pushed his head into the cool water. He just went harder and faster and faster and harder.

"Stop."

"STOP."

"ANDERSON."

Blaine pulled out of his tumbleturn just in time.

"Out. Now."

It was Coach Wheeler.

"My office."

* * *

><p>And that was how a shivering Blaine Anderson, wrapped in a fluffy Dalton towel, came to be sitting on a plastic chair in the tiled office of his swim coach. His hair began to curl as both teacher and student endured five minutes of tense silence.<p>

But then Coach Wheeler couldn't take it any more.

"You gonna tell me what this is about?"

Blaine writhed on the chair.

"Blaine, look at me."

Wheeler _never_ used his first name. Blaine couldn't help but lift his eyes to meet the coach's.

"You were goin crazy in there, Blaine. Your stroke was terrible, and loads of the guys were actually gettin outta the pool because you were making the water so damn choppy. You're a powerful swimmer, dude, but you gotta be more refined. You know that, especially with your injury history, y'know."

Blaine's eyes found their way back to the tiled floor. Wheeler was right: his leg was throbbing madly.

"Sorry."

God, he was so stupid he couldn't even _swim_ properly anymore.

"Blaine, you're avoidin lookin at me again."

Blaine lifted his eyes back up. They felt like they were attached to half-ton weights.

"What's goin' on, bud?"

Blaine just shrugged.

More silence.

"Okay, I can't make you tell me. But I'll say this only once, so listen up. Kid, you know me. I'm a dude. More than that, I'm a freakin swim coach. It's my job to be a tough guy. That means that whenever I say anythin nice, I sure as hell mean it. So believe me when I say that you're the most awesome guy I've ever met."

He paused for emphasis, looking deep into Blaine's eyes.

"You're super super smart, the smartest kid here, the smartest person I know. You're a great swimmer and an even better musician. You're the exact type of person a guy like me could never meet without workin in a school like this. But you know the best thing about you?"

Wheeler took Blaine's non-response as a no.

"You're a good guy, Blaine. You've got a good heart. It takes a lot of bravery to stand up and be who you are. You showed me that, dude. You're fifty million times smarter than me, but you don't make me feel a fool. You're an inspiration to me, you taught me a lot. And that bastard Rachin too, you know he can't stop singin your praises in the teachers' room? I shouldn't say this but he's like you, you know. Queer. And all that."

Wheeler's intense green eyes looked searchingly into Blaine's.

Blaine sat there for a moment, completely stunned that anyone would ever say anything like this. _Especially_ Wheeler. Blaine hadn't even known that his coach knew he was gay, but thinking about it, he realised that _everybody _at Dalton had heard it somewhere. It wasn't exactly a secret. He could never be exactly like everyone else.

And these complements were wrong. He was wrong. He was a liar, a cheat, a fraud and a coward. It was all so very, very wrong.

He felt like screaming but that wouldn't achieve anything; he knew that now.

So he simply pushed himself up out of the chair, cringing slightly as a dart of electric pain ran up his battered shin.

He slowly shook his head.

"That's not really me, Wheeler. It's not. Everyone's got me wrong. I'm an _idiot_."

It was as quiet as an ant scurrying up a library bookshelf, but it was out there.

He turned to leave.

"No one's perfect, dude, but you come pretty damn close."

Blaine felt sick to his stomach that he could have misled a good guy like Wheeler so badly.

* * *

><p>The day continued, and things just went from awkward to intolerable. Everyone was hedging around him, shooting him dubious little grins and patting him softly on the back. Everyone seemed to know that he was this year's pathetic king of the lonely hearts, everyone was probably starting to guess what a pathetic loser he truly was.<p>

Well, everyone except Kurt. They'd shared a half hour conversation that morning about hemlines and Tom Ford and the verisimilitude of _The Devil Wears Prada_, although Blaine had spent most of it trying to figure out exactly what it was about Kurt's eyes that made them so sparkly. There was no harm looking, right? Kurt wouldn't mind. Kurt still didn't know the real him. Kurt wasn't judging him.

But everyone else seemed to be.

And then, at the end of the day when he was on his way to his car, Wes approached.

"DUDE! I haven't spoken to you properly for, like, a lifetime. Where were you? I looked for you after Kurt's party and you were nowhere to be found."

Blaine turned around, slow and reluctant. He didn't want to tell his friend that he'd driven home after the performance to sit in his room and hide from the world. He'd only be mocked for it, and he wasn't really in the mood for banter right now.

"Hey Wes."

"Look man, I'm sorry the whole sing song wooing didn't go down so well. Plenty more boy fish in the rainbow sea."

Blaine winced.

"Oh god, you weren't arrested were you? Why did the alarm go off, anyway?"

Wes's face twisted into an amused smile as a thought crossed his mind.

"Dude, you didn't steal anything did you, cuz that'd be hilarious because your dad's a lawmaker and so ri –"

Blaine looked down towards his shin, which he twisted as he moved his foot in the gravel.

Wes suddenly looked a whole lot more sympathetic.

"Oh. Your leg. I always forget about your bad leg, you know. It must totally suck."

Blaine had had enough.

"My whole life kinda sucks, Wes. I'm used to it."

And he turned and walked towards his car, leaving a gaping friend in his wake.

* * *

><p>Home wasn't much better.<p>

Or, indeed, better at all.

Blaine had stepped in through the front door into the hallway of the house, his footsteps ricocheting around in the silence of the empty room. He chucked his blazer carelessly on a chair and kicked his shoes off with his feet, before turning to head towards the grand staircase that led up to the second storey.

But then he heard it.

Muffled at first, but then louder.

A sob. Or a choked cough. One of the two.

But…

It was coming from his father's study.

Convinced that his tired, overworked brain was projecting his sadness onto the world around him, he climbed the stairs and worked robotically through his assignments for the night, doing no more than was absolutely necessary.

Fuck, he hated school. Full of douches, nice douches but douches all the same, all prying into his business.

And the work. He was so, incurably, incorrigibly bored. Nothing challenged him, nothing excited him. He may as well not be there.

His mother called him down for dinner just as he closed his History textbook for the night.

His mother?

On a weeknight?

His mother only ever cooked the family dinners on the weekend, and even they were turning into something of a rarity. Blaine tended to eat alone during the week, heating up the odd hot pocket whenever he wasn't out with Kurt.

But the fact remained that there _was _a family dinner. And it _was _a weeknight.

Something was seriously wrong.

Something that probably wasn't even his fault.

Something that was an Anderson problem.

He couldn't even begin to guess what it would be.

* * *

><p>He walked into the dining room, immediately noticing that the table had been fastidiously laid out for several courses. His mother and father sitting close together at the very end of the long dinner table, cowering behind their napkins that had each been folded into perfectly identical swans.<p>

Seeing that only other place that had been set was right next to his father, Blaine moved along the length of the table towards his parents. The silence hung in the air like a leaden cloud.

Without a word, Karen stood and retrieved their first course, a liver pate, from the kitchen. It was consumed with a surreal side dish of silence. There was no sound that could have indicated that the room was occupied other than the scratch of cutlery on plates and the subtle munching of food.

Michael got up, presumably to take back the plates. Strangely, he left empty-handed, only to return shortly afterwards accompanied by a sheet of thick cream paper.

He sat down and took several steadying breaths, creating a silence only to break it moments later.

"Blaine."

Both parents looked at their son. Blaine couldn't tell what they were thinking.

"We love you," Karen began, "We don't want you to be upset."

It was then that Blaine began to panic. Had The GAP lodged a formal complaint with his parents? Did they still think he was a shoplifter?

"Yes," Michael Anderson agreed, "You're our son."

Blaine's confused face must have made his parents realise that they were only prolonging the misery. They both inhaled simultaneously, opening their mouths at exactly the same time.

"You first, Michael," said Karen.

Her husband's pained expression made him look like he was about to read a death warrant.

"Very well."

He paused before he voiced the very thing that had shattered their world.

"Blaine, we've been disinherited. Your grandfather has written me this letter officially severing all ties with us, and particularly… you."

There was silence as the air splintered and fell down around them. Black waterfalls cascaded noiselessly down Karen's face; Michael's eyes brimmed with tears.

But Blaine was still confused. Why was this a problem? The family was rich as it was, it didn't need his grandfather's money. He didn't even care about money anyway: there are, after all, no pockets in a funeral shroud. Having fun and creating good things that could be left behind, that was what it was all about. But it was clear that something was very, very wrong.

His parents, perceptive for once, seemed to pick up on his confusion.

"Blaine, do you understand why we are upset?" Karen asked.

Blaine's eyes were wide as he desperately searched his parents' devastated faces for an answer. Michael in particular was looking directly at him, his eyes flicking from the unravelling curls that were twining themselves around his head down to his wide, fearful eyes.

Blaine took a breath and shook his head.

Michael's voice cracked as he began to speak.

"Blaine, you are a man now so I'll speak to you as one. This letter, which I will have Xeroxed for you, is from your Grandfather Michael. In it he informs me that upon his death, the Anderson family will not be receiving any of the fortune generated by Anderson International or any of its subsidiaries."

Blaine gaped in incomprehension.

"But why… why now? What did I do?"

The single tear that had threatened to fall earlier now began to seep its way down Michael Anderson's face. Blaine's stomach churned: he had never seen his father cry, but he pretended not to have noticed.

Michael responded with a shake of the head, before beginning to speak once more.

"Blaine, it wasn't you... Well, I guess it is _centred _on you, all of this is."

Blaine's eyes stuck themselves to the empty plate in front of him.

"Hey, hey," said Michael, his tone softer than it had been years, "everything _ought _to be focused on you. You're our future, Blaine, how can you not be at the forefront of our thoughts?"

Blaine lifted his eyes to meet his father's watery gaze. All he could see were wide, hazel eyes staring right back at him. He could almost have been staring in a mirror.

"So we've been cut off? But we can afford it, right?"

Michael gave a small smile. "Yes, Blaine, we're more than comfortable. All this," he gestured around the room, "Every last bit of it, was earned by your mother and I. We haven't dug into my father's pot at all. I don't want you worrying about that."

Blaine looked blankly at his father's face.

"Don't you get it, Blaine?" Michael said, with only the slightest hint of frustration.

Blaine paused for a moment before shaking his head stronger than ever, ridding the last of his gelled curls of their product in the process.

Everything went very quiet.

"Without that legacy, we're not true Andersons any more." He paused, trying to elucidate in a way Blaine might better understand.

He found it.

"I've lost my father. Forever."

Oh.

Sure, Blaine hated the old bastard and was glad never to be seeing him again, but his _father_, his father and his grandfather had been so close. His father had trusted his grandfather with everything. And now he was grieving. Grieving for someone who was still alive.

Blaine found himself nodding sadly.

"I'm really sorry, dad."

Michael just smiled slightly, clearly still overwhelmed.

There were a few beats of silence while Blaine struggled not to ask the question that had been bugging him for the last five minutes.

But in the end, his curiosity got the better of him.

"Why now?"

Michael looked straight at his son.

"I guess it's an accumulation of several different factors, all stemming from that Christmas dinner."

Blaine looked back down at his plate. "I'm sorry, father."

"Dad."

"Dad."

And that seemed to be the natural conclusion to that particular part of the conversation. Karen scurried off in the direction of the kitchen to pick up their main course.

Her movement stirred yet another question in Blaine.

"Dad?"

His father looked at him.

"Why is mom so upset? She hates him."

Michael just shook his head.

"We will discuss it when she returns. We are a triumvirate now Blaine, we can't be having conversations behind each other's backs."

Karen appeared at the doorway as if on cue, carrying three plates of chicken. She set Blaine's and Michael's down wordlessly before placing her own portion in front of her chair. The gravy had congealed from being sat on the hotplate for too long, forming a thick skin that gave the dish a rather dull appearance. The vegetables had wilted into a green mush.

Blaine robotically scooped the chicken into his mouth. It still tasted good despite everything; Karen was a wonderful cook.

"Ask your mother."

Blaine almost choked on the chicken. Time had passed, and the question now seemed beyond inappropriate.

"Uh, I was just asking fa- dad, I was just asking… why…"

"Blaine, you can ask me anything you want." His mother said softly, "That's why your father and I decided to have this family meeting."

"Umm, okay." He took a breath, knowing that he might not even want to know the answer to this question. But he _needed _the answer, and that was more important right now.

He looked straight at his mother.

"Why are you upset?"

His mother flinched, and his father gave a small cough. Sadness fell across both of their faces.

Blaine knew it would be bad.

"He didn't mention the whole… thing. Like, the _thing _you know, did he? That you are… can't…"

"That I can't have more children?"

Blaine avoided her gaze once more.

"Yeah."

"Yes, he did. More than once. Which ties into the _other _thing."

Blaine began to panic. It would be so much easier for everyone if they could just say it.

Finally, after a seeming eternity of silence, his father began to speak.

"Blaine, Anderson International is worth a lot of money. A lot. And your grandfather is the majority shareholder. I am an only child, so I would have stood to inherit the shares. And then, when I die, I would have passed the shares to you. All of them, because you're also an only child. There'd be nowhere else for them to go, even if I didn't want you to have them. But instead, they are now going to be sold, with the profits shared between four organisations."

Well that didn't _sound_ so bad. But Blaine still suspected that it was.

"One is the Republican Party. That will be receiving one-third of the profits."

Obviously.

"The other three organisations will be sharing the remaining two-thirds between them."

Blaine immediately (and involuntarily) calculated that that gave each of the remaining three organisations two-ninths each.

Not a lot. Until he remembered that Anderson International was worth at least $440 million. And Michael Senior owned 50.1% of the shares.

Damn, he'd better have chosen those organisations wisely.

"Blaine," Michael said stonily, "He chose three charities with a strongly anti-homosexual stance."

Blaine gulped, astonished that his grandfather found him so repulsive that he would channel the Anderson legacy away from the family and into a financial reservoir of his personal hate. His grandfather obviously knew that passing the shares to his son would, in time, mean passing them to his grandson.

He had chosen his hatred of Blaine over his attachment to his son.

He had liquidated his company, a life's work, just so that it wouldn't go to his gay grandson.

It was devastating. Devastating that he could share blood with such a monster.

And then, in a final horrific realisation, Blaine realised that it wasn't just the family that was being punished. No, that was the triple edge that came with everything Michael Senior ever did. This, this legacy, donation, whatever, would mean thousands of people like him would suffer abuse and discrimination. The money would be used to sponsor politicians, start campaigns and spread hatred, just when things were starting to look up.

And it was all his fault. If he hadn't been gay, none of this would have happened.

At all.

It was his fault his father and grandfather had argued.

His fault that these 'charities' were set to be given a massive financial boost to carry out their appalling work.

His fault that his parents were sitting in front of him right now with their hands clasped together on the table and matching downcast expressions on their faces.

Silence.

Then Blaine burst.

"I'm so sorry. I'm really, really sorry and I can't do anything now but -"

"Blaine, this isn't your fault," Karen insisted. "You couldn't have done anything about this."

Michael looked increasingly uncomfortable.

"Son, no one here is blaming you. We lo- We love you, Blaine."

He reached over to give his son an awkward pat on the back, but before he knew it he was holding a sobbing boy against his chest. He didn't know what to do, he really didn't. Not any more.

He could feel the wetness of Blaine's tears seeping through his cotton dress shirt and onto his chest, and his body rocked in sympathy whenever his son let out a heartfelt sob.

Years of political experience allowed him to bury his own emotions in a matter of milliseconds.

"Blaine," he said firmly, "Promise me that you're not going to do anything stupid. Promise me now that you won't."

Blaine just nodded.

Relieved, Michael found himself uneasily patting Blaine's hair.

And looking down, he saw them. Those curls. Those curls that were still there, that had always been there ever since Blaine was a small child. Deep down, below those muscles and jaw line and deep voice, was still that boy who had been completely obsessed with elephants. The adult currently curled against his chest was the same guy that had been his chirpy but intensely shy little kid. Blaine was still his little boy.

But he didn't know what to do. Everything he tried was wrong, nothing he said or did could ever make it better. He was just an idiot with no idea what he was doing. And he was doomed without his father, politically and personally. This was the beginning of the end for him, he knew it.

But Blaine. Blaine had so much going for him. He just didn't see it yet.

And then Michael understood it.

Beneath that socially easy, smooth guy was an awkward teenager. An awkward _person_, because awkwardness isn't really something you ever grow out of, no matter what they say. You just become older and learn to either embrace it or cover it up. Blaine was still at the point where he was doing a bit of both, giving everything of himself in the hope that people might bother to give little scraps of themselves in return. He desperately wanted to be liked. That was all it was.

_Liked_.

"We still like you, Blaine. You're still our son."

Blaine only sobbed harder. Maybe it hadn't worked.

"But you still wish me different, don't you? I know you do. Sometimes _I _do."

Karen looked like her world was being ripped apart before her eyes.

But then Michael's logic kicked in. It was his flight and his fight all in one, his personal Excalibur that never failed him whenever he was stuck in a tough political debate or close-run legal battle.

"Well, I don't deny that it would be easier for everyone involved but the point is that-"

A weight shifted off his body as Blaine ran towards the door and up the stairs.

"I'll go after him," Karen murmured, just about ready to cry herself.

Suddenly alone, Michael sat in the room having become estranged from his father and very nearly his son all in the same day.

Man, he was an idiot. A useless, bumbling idiot. And an even worse father. What would _he_ be passing on?

For the first time since the day his son was born, his face was covered in the sticky residue of a hundred tears.

* * *

><p><strong>AN I am dying of work. There is so, so much that I can't even begin to think where to start. So naturally I decided not to do any of it and wrote this instead \o/ Needless to say that I haven't had time to edit it properly so if you spot any glaring errors, do let me know. I hope it was okay. Please review, they give me little bursts of happiness which I will need if I am ever to conquer my thrilling backlog of 97 (I counted) emails. SAVE ME.**

**Thanks so much for your positive responses, especially to the anons whom I am obviously unable to thank in person. ALR, I _loved_ your very kind and thought-provoking review and no, I could never get bored of long reviews- they are my favourites! I love hearing what you've all gathered from the chapter and how you've interpreted my brand of crazy.  
><strong>

**See you all soon :)**


	22. Pink Elephants

**Chapter 22: Pink Elephants  
><strong>

_But seeing things you know that ain't__  
><em>_Can certainly give you an awful fright!__  
><em>_What a sight!__  
><em>_Chase 'em away!__  
><em>_Chase 'em away!__  
><em>_I'm afraid, need your aid,__  
><em>_Pink elephants on parade!_

- 'Pink Elephants on Parade', _Dumbo_ (1941)

* * *

><p>The next week was measured out in coffee spoons. Coffee spoons, biscotti and medium drips. All with Kurt, of course.<p>

The daily trips to the Lima Bean were the solid monkey bars that gave small but significant direction to each tiny leap Blaine took away from his comfort zone. He would go so far, allowing himself to occasionally defrost his poker face and react to things without checking and rechecking himself, before he'd slip the mask on once more.

The cups with their frothy milk (which somehow managed to be the same consistency with every order) became the key to Blaine's ability to talk, the safety net he knew would prevent him from spilling his heart. He'd quickly found that any uncomfortable situation could be avoided by the simple action of sipping coffee – the cup hid his face well enough, and its position at his lips also served as a sure-fire way to stop his Kurt-induced motormouth from oversharing. And, as he'd discovered over the last few days especially, a well-timed sip could be the stop gap he needed to build up the courage to give some of his anxieties a voice.

He didn't say any of the big hitters, of course he didn't. Those would be locked away forever; cowardice, running, injury and grief would be things he would keep within him until the day he died, he was sure of it. But Blaine had other pressing concerns, things that he couldn't ask anyone about but Kurt. The boy knew Blaine better than anyone alive and, for better or worse, Blaine needed him to tell the truth.

Even if he only knew half of who Blaine really was.

The funny thing was that Blaine never seemed to be the one to raise any of the topics. Kurt navigated the conversations like a human dowsing rod, innately sensing what needed to be said before any clue appeared in the conversation. It was welcome, but disarmingly so; Blaine was scared of what Kurt would get to know, or already knew. He just made sure he was careful. Always.

Kurt's probing questions were always so damn subtle, too: "so Blaine, how did you come to head up The Warblers?" was dropped into conversation just as easily as "I've got the new issue and I'm ready for a challenge, let's plan outfits for Paula Deen", "Why the excessive hair gel?" right next to "I'm trying out to become a student lifeguard on the sole condition that I'm granted the special privilege of wearing my see-through mac over my blazer." It was totally alarming and Blaine couldn't afford to be off guard for a second: his coffee cup remained close to his lips for at least sixty percent of every meeting.

The thing was that Kurt was just so terrifyingly _open _about who he was. Always. There was something about him that caused Blaine to find himself sailing all too close to the wind, something that he had to keep in constant check. He'd have to hide forever.

He'd know it was coming as soon as Kurt looked up at him and took a breath. Blaine would toughen his face accordingly.

"How come you're not on the council? You call the shots, right?" Kurt would say.

"Uh not suited to it, I guess," he would vaguely reply.

"But you, Wes and David go way back. I can tell."

Hot damn.

"Oh, yeah, middle school."

And then there'd be this need to tell Kurt how once, long ago, Wes and David had pretended to be gargoyles in the pool. How they'd torn St. Kennies up, how he'd been sure they were soulless pains in the ass until that one day when he'd seen Wes sitting in a pew crying his eyes out for people he barely knew.

He'd take a breath and

Sip.

Sip sip sip.

Prepare a story.

Sip.

But then Kurt wouldn't say anything for a while. He'd just sit back and clock the information that _had_ been given.

And then –

"I _love _the colours Grace Coddington used on the double-page spread pages 26 to 27, don't you?"

Then, before Blaine could even begin to think how best to describe the photographic glory of the pages in question, Kurt would swing back just as suddenly to the previous conversation.

"Wes is kind of a douche though, isn't he?"

And Blaine would be tempted all over again and have to raise his guard in seconds.

It was hard.

And he'd slipped up so many times already, telling Kurt about how he'd once held his mom while she cried in the car because she missed his dad so much, how he'd recently been present at a rather ill-fated Christmas lunch, how his dad had given him a pair of elephants that were porcelain like Kurt's skinto – nickname, his nickname.

Kurt would just grin broadly and lock the information away in his mental filing cabinet of Facts About Blaine.

Perhaps most alarming of all, Blaine just didn't care as much as he'd thought he would. He had to be careful, he knew he did, because there were some things about him he didn't want to share with anybody, ever. But giving Kurt little titbits in return for the overflowing paper mountain of his own mental repository of Facts About Kurt felt good. Surprisingly good. No one had trusted him with that level of honesty since… well, since Orrin. And he'd missed it. He'd missed it a lot.

And these meetings were good for him, he knew it. Every little thing he learnt about Kurt, every morsel consumed and coffee drunk, made the long nights in the sad Anderson house just that little bit more bearable.

* * *

><p>Thursday's Bean began entirely innocuously, exactly as their meetings generally did. Kurt told him the frightful news that yes, the rumours were true, Rachel Berry <em>had <em>indeed been seen wearing that awful blue pantsuit. Again. He even had a picture message from Mercedes to prove it.

Then Blaine told Kurt about the time when the boys at Dalton had discovered that the school's internet filter had somehow missed a hardcore pornography site called 'A Midsummer Night's Cream' and he'd seen things he could never unsee.

And then Kurt had blushed and said that Finn had caused a similar situation, "and _oh god_ it was the worst thing ever because I was only on Finn's laptop to find a few quick facts about Guillaume de Machaut – do you know who – oh yeah, I sometimes forget that I'm sitting opposite Human Wikipedia – and then suddenly his Internet history pops up and dear _lord _that isn't something I'll _ever _be able to blot out from my memory. Scarred. For. Life."

And then Kurt went even redder and gave an adorable little shake like a wet puppy and –

"And yeah, so as compensation for the irreparable damage to my sensibilities, I did the noble thing and decided to use it as blackmail fodder to score invites to an exclusive party in Lima. Sooooo… Blaine Anderson, will you come to Rachel Berry's trainwreck extravaganza with me? It's bound to be the worst party you've _ever _been to."

Blaine sort of doubted that, but smiled anyway.

"Are you sure your friends would want me there? I don't want to intrude or anything like that."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Of course they won't mind. Besides, I'm pretty sure I can talk Finn into _anything_ now."

Blaine considered it for a moment. How bad could it be? He needed a break, needed to meet new people, needed Kurt. Kurt's friendship.

He smiled at Kurt. "I'll be there."

* * *

><p>Blaine had arrived at the Berrys' with Kurt and Finn, managing to only vomit a little in his mouth upon seeing Rachel's snot-green nightdress partywear hybrid. He'd slid in with the others, no grand entrance, nothing to single him out. He was totally off the clock – he wasn't even wearing his uniform – and it felt great.

He eagerly cast his eyes around the room, seeing familiar faces from that stage in Columbus. His head fizzed with happy memories of lights and applause and acceptance and success as he remembered the joy of complete artistic freedom.

But then he saw _it_, and every thought process drew to a sudden halt.

DRINK TICKETS HERE.

Oh god, he hadn't realised there'd be _alcohol_. Sure, this ticket system seemed super-managed and tame and nothing like the glimpses he'd had of teen culture on Skins or whatever, but still.

Alcohol.

To get you drunk.

Thinking about it, it wasn't that surprising. Teenagers drank, teenagers were stupid, he was a teenager and everyone he hung out with was too.

But unlike the others, he was sixteen and he'd never had anything more than a sip. He was so naïve and inexperienced, especially compared to the New Directions who seemed completely at home in this party environment. He'd never even seen teenagers drinking first-hand before, and now it seemed that he'd been thrown into a lions' den of people he barely knew.

These people were so unlike him in every way. They were loud where he was reserved, they broke rules, they had _no _limits. And they hadn't spent a year recovering from being beaten up, either. At that moment, Blaine realised that the November ordeal had done more than just shatter his life: it had frozen it, too. He had been knocked from the bridge that spans between jelly sandwiches and lime and tequila. He'd never really been growing up, it had more or less happened overnight.

And that meant he was _weird_. He just hoped the others wouldn't notice.

Blaine knew he had a lot of catching up to do. He wanted to try everything, taste everything, figure out what he liked and didn't like. But he wouldn't get drunk, he was sure of it. After all, he had no real friends here apart from Kurt, not to mention that he had to drive home because his parents were too busy gallivanting around Washington to pick him up. And he really, _really_ didn't want to say anything stupid. It was better to be safe than sorry, many things had taught him that.

Rachel Berry suddenly began to talk loudly over the music.

"Sooo… let's go over the rules. Everybody gets two drink tickets to keep things from getting out of hand."

Blaine breathed a silent sigh of relief as he took the two hot pink drinks tickets. The whole thing was going to be controlled – no one would think him weird for not drinking much, he could blame his lack of consumption on Rachel rather than his own alcoholic frigidness. He didn't know how strong wine coolers were or even _what_ they were, but he guessed they wouldn't be too potent if the Berry was serving them up.

But something in him was disappointed when one sip had led to another and another with absolutely no effect. Alcohol was a bit of a let down, really. He didn't feel any different at all. There was no buzz, nothing.

"GERONIMO. Just blasted that liquor cabinet open dudes, I knew The Saw's supreme juvie lockpicking skills would come in one day without landing me back in there."

Blaine just stared – Puck had been in Juvie? Maybe he knew… No, he wouldn't think about that. Puck wouldn't know who the hell he was, much less his possible connection with some of the most dangerous guys around.

"Blaine, dude, you want some punch?"

Oh God, Puck was talking to him, offering him _more_ alcohol in the epitome of clichés, the _red solo cup_. Yep, an _actual_ red solo cup was being thrust right under his nose. Blaine looked down, seeing that it was filled with a brown liquid that looked way too cloudy to be entirely legit. Its noxious fumes burned the inside of his nose.

"What's in it?"

"Oh, you know, the usual, wine, Bacardi, vodka, gin, juice. Nothing too strong, man. It'll just get you a bit buzzed, loosen you up."

Blaine looked down at the liquid once again with a dubious expression spread across his face. Just as Puck was about to start speaking again, no doubt to mock him or whatever, Blaine reached out and took the cup. It was as simple as that.

He'd just go slow.

Very slow.

He took a careful sip as he looked over towards the piano, where Kurt and Rachel were sitting around talking in hushed tones and giggling. They wouldn't want him there. He took another sip, ignoring his burning throat as he knocked it back. Before long he couldn't stop. At all.

He gazed across the room to see how everyone else was pacing themselves. Brittany was busy dancing, and Mercedes was knocking back whole cupfuls to very little effect – it couldn't be that bad, all she was doing was laughing a bit more than usual. He blinked and the floor spun a little. His eyes moved over to Rachel, who was now cuddled up next to Finn. Wait, weren't they broken up? He wracked his hazy mind in an attempt to remember before concluding that he couldn't care less. But maybe alcohol would let him get closer to Kurt… Kurt. Kuuurt. Kurt Hummel. Kurtkurtkurtkurtkurt.

Yeah, maybe he had the teensiest crush, but crush was all it was. He had crushes all the time and they had only ever caused him trouble. And just because Kurt was hot and funny and caring, didn't mean they had to _date _each other. Dating was stupid. And it wasn't fair to lead Kurt on when Blaine was such a liar. Someone, Orrin, had told him that honesty was everything, and it was. And Blaine's whole life was one big lie. Kurt could never know that though.

That was a rather sobering thought, so Blaine decided to down the remainder of the cup and several more. Before long he was up on the stage dancing to some electro song about a G6 or something. He'd never heard of it before. But it was fun. SO fun. He couldn't stop himself.

And then Kurt was there. With Finn. Finn wasn't even dancing, but Kurt had said he was a really bad dancer anyway so that was probably why and Kurt probably wouldn't want him to say anything so he didn't and instead said how tall Finn was because he _was _really tall especially compared to Blaine who was stupidly short and shorter than Kurt and Kurt would probably think he was some kind of small woodland creature or something and would never even give him the time of day or – THIS WAS THE BEST PARTY EVER, especially now Kurt was right next to him but what was happening, where was he going, did Kurt want him –Oh, Kurt had just steered him to a seat and gone off to talk to Finn.

He sat there, alone, for a good ten minutes, singing nonsensical songs to himself and watching the others (Kurt). Then some guy came over.

"Want a JD and Coke?"

PUCK! It was Puck! Puck was a cool guy. SUCH a cool guy. But there was something Blaine knew he shouldn't mention. What was it? He tried his best to remember. JUVIE. He giggled. Bad Blaine, no Juvie. Juvie was bad. Wait, Puck asked him something. Something about JD?

JACK DANIEL'S.

YEAH MAN.

"AWESOME. And your hair sorta looks like a porcupine."

Puck said something and walked off, leaving Blaine to glug his way to an artifical happiness.

* * *

><p>Feeling the room starting to swirl, Blaine realised he'd gone a little far. He knocked back three glasses of water and sat down, hoping he'd start to feel better. That's what drunk people did to sober up, right?<p>

Sure enough, he soon regained enough wherewithal to see properly and actually dance properly. He still felt really happy, though. SUPER HAPPY. This party was AWESOME.

Then.

"SPIN THE BOTTLE. WHO WANTS TO PLAY SPIN THE BOTTLE? SPIN THE BOTTLE!"

By now, Blaine had recovered enough to have an inkling that this was a bad, _bad _idea. His gut twisted with nerves as he realised that he'd only been kissed once in his whole life. Once. And thinking about it objectively, it had just been a mess of tongue and slobber because neither of them had really known what the hell they were doing and it was always a bit shit the first time anyway. It had been special, sure. Perfect, even. But still a little bit gross.

And this was probably going to be gross and not perfect at all. Bummer. And everyone would be able to see what a terrible kisser he was and they'd laugh at him. Unthinkingly, he reached for a glass bottle full of some kind of golden brown stuff and poured a few glugs of it into his solo cup. He knocked it back quickly and the world started to spin again.

That was better.

Sam and Brittany. That was stupid. Yuck. But it was still _really _funny. HILARIOUS, even. His arms were waving wildly with nervy excitement.

"MY TURN, MY TURN."

It was Rachel Berry. Blaine watched the bottle go round on the draughts board, mesmerised as it twinkled under the lights. But then it stopped and there was a loud cheer and Kurt was saying how outstanding it was – did he have Kurt? Was he kissing Kurt? – but then he looked down and yes the bottle was pointing at him and shit, Rachel Berry was coming over, looming right in front of his face and pointing a finger straight at him.

"Blaine Warbler, I'm gonna rock your world."

And then she leant in.

And it was wrong because Rachel Berry was like, super annoying, and she was wearing a totally gross dress and BLAINE ANDERSON LIKED BOYS NOT GIRLS because he was _GAY_.

But he was still leaning in towards her, matching her movement until –

Their lips met.

And it was hot and incredible and tingly and his brain was going _crazy_. It was amazing.

And he _could_ kiss, and there wasn't any gross tongue this time just lips on lips and then he was grabbing her head and kissing her more. Yeah, he was a grabber.

"DEEP! DEEP!"

"More, more, more"

And he wanted more.

So he just kissed harder.

Somewhere someone said how crazy it was. But he didn't care, not at all. He was _buzzing_. And he hadn't even had a panic attack like he thought he might the first time he kissed someone who wasn't Orrin… And apparently his face tasted awesome. He _was_ AWESOME. And – he forgot what he was thinking.

"I think I found a new duet partner!"

Okay, yeah, he was awesome.

And then he was up on stage under the comforting glare of the lights singing about wanting a baby. A girl baby. A grown up, girlfriend kind of baby.

And Rachel Berry looked _hot_. That dress still turned his stomach, no amount of alcohol could change that, but her hair was a beautiful brown and her eyes were sparkling and she had the biggest, most perfect smile and he was going to write his number down for her and –

* * *

><p>The next thing he knew, he was in the back seat of Kurt's car driving down a familiar road. Kurt's road. In Lima.<p>

But he still felt scared. He knew he was vulnerable, even though he trusted Kurt to look after him.

"Kurtie, Kurtie, where are we?"

Kurt shifted a bit awkwardly.

"We're going back to mine. You told me your parents were in Washington."

Oh.

"It's fine I can drive home because I can drive, y'know?"

"Blaine, you're like fifty times over the limit."

"'m not."

Kurt giggled a bit.

"Trust me Blaine, you are. You were mackin on Rachel Berry, that's surely enough of an indication."

"Rachel's really hot."

Kurt stopped laughing.

"You're drunk, Blaine. Come on, let's go inside."

Blaine felt incredibly dizzy when he stood up but Kurt wrapped an arm around his waist and then it was fine. Kurt practically carried him up the garden path before telling him to remain silent _on pain of death _and bundling him through the front door and up the stairs.

"Sleep here."

"Next to you?"

Kurt bit his lip and nodded.

"Where else?"

Blaine shrugged and threw himself onto the bed, suddenly tired from the whole ordeal. He went out like a light.

And then, somewhere along the line, he was heaving up into a toilet.

And then he was asleep again.

* * *

><p>Waking up felt exactly like waking up in that hospital bed, except without the pain.<p>

His head did hurt, though. It hurt a lot.

Opening his eyes made his vision swim. It felt like that time he'd been skiing in Colorado when he'd got snow blindness. And it _really_ hurt.

He could feel his throbbing heart in his head.

And there was noise. A deep, gruff voice. And a noise that really _really _pained Blaine's pounding head.

"… teach me all about brunch."

Huh? That wasn't his father. His father wouldn't want to know about brunch. Wait, _this_ wasn't his room.

He was so confused.

"I'll be down in a sec."

Kurt.

Oh god.

"Where am I?"

He forced himself to sit up and look around.

Shit.

He was in _Kurt's _room.

And that was Kurt's _dad_.

And Kurt was there, too. Obviously. At his vanity table.

Did he…? Had they…?

God this was embarrassing. And his vision blurred with every heartbeat.

Man, his life sucked.

He threw his head in the pillow in the hope that it'd all just go away.

* * *

><p>It didn't.<p>

"Kurt? Kurt?"

"Yeah?"

"We didn't… ummm, we didn't have sex, did we?"

Kurt turned a deep, deep red.

Well, shit.

Blaine was _so _thankful when he began to shake his head.

"No, Blaine. We didn't. You were wrecked, of course I wouldn't take advantage of you like that."

And Blaine knew Kurt wouldn't but maybe he'd…

"I didn't, ummm, I didn't make the moves on you though, did I? Please say I didn't. You're kinda blushing, I'm worried I did something stupid. Oh god, I hope I didn't _streak _or anything."

Kurt just went redder.

"No, Blaine. Look, you're still fully-clothed. And your interests were of a far more… heterosexual nature."

Blaine thought back. That was right, he'd kissed Rachel Berry.

He'd. Kissed. Rachel. Berry.

And it had felt good. Like, _really_ good.

Kurt looked upset. He was probably disappointed in him. He was quite disappointed in himself.

"Right."

Kurt just looked at him wearily.

"Blaine, I'm going to ask you a question and I want you to answer it. Don't avoid it, don't."

He paused. Blaine was fearful that he'd ask about _that_. Maybe Kurt had finally worked him out. Maybe he'd said something. Oh god.

"Blaine, have you ever been drunk before? Because you were sick, like actually sick. I had to take you to the bathroom because you were about to barf, it was so gross. I'm just wondering because you don't normally let yourself get out of control, ever. And you were _completely _gone last night."

Honesty was the only approach. His head hurt too much to lie. And he was relieved Kurt hadn't asked anything else.

"Never been drunk before. Last night was great, but this, it fucking sucks."

Kurt grinned.

"I know. At least you don't have to go to school. I was sick all over my school's – I mean my _old_ school's – guidance counsellor. It was horrific."

Blaine proffered a sheepish smile.

"I'm really sorry I was sick. Things did get really outta hand."

Kurt smiled at him.

"It's fine, it happens to the best of us. Just don't go so crazy next time, okay? Promise me."

"I promise."

And all was forgiven.

* * *

><p>Well, it was all forgiven after Blaine went home that Sunday.<p>

All forgiven on Monday morning when Blaine came into Kurt's Calc class.

All forgiven at lunchtime when they ate together in the Dalton dining room.

All forgiven until Blaine answered his phone that night at the Lima Bean.

Blaine hadn't told Kurt that he just couldn't stop thinking about that kiss. He didn't really think about Rachel, not much. More of what that kiss meant. Because he had been wrong about so, _so _much lately. Maybe he'd found something out about himself he'd never known before.

After all, he'd thought he respected himself but then he'd tried to lose his virginity in all the wrong ways. And now he'd got really drunk, even when he'd said he wouldn't. He wasn't anything like the person he wanted to be, and even less like the person he knew he was deep down. Maybe he wasn't even –

Maybe he wasn't even gay.

He'd thought he was, ever since he was thirteen. He'd kind of known before that, because felt different for as long as he could remember. He was used to it. But thirteen was _really _young to have come out, wasn't it? And at that point he hadn't really known any girls. Maybe defining himself so early on had been a mistake, maybe he was conforming to a homonormative model that he'd carved for himself before he knew better. Maybe he was _too _used to being different.

And now there was this _opportunity_.

"You're such a cutie pie with your blazer and your pants. You're just really hot, like _really_ hot. So, I have a question for you, I wanted to know –"

"Is she drunk?" Kurt asked, laughing.

But she wasn't. Well, maybe a little, but still. Dutch courage and all that.

And yeah, she said it.

"Will you go out on a date with me?"

Blaine shushed Kurt, not wanting to miss a word of what Rachel was saying.

"…_Love Story _at the Revival Theater, sound good? We'll dress up and it'll be absolutely fantastic, especially when I start singing."

It sounded awesome.

But don't sound too keen, Blaine. Especially not with _Kurt _there.

"Uh-huh, all right, I'll see you then."

"See you then. I'm so exciteeeeeeed."

"Okay, bye."

He turned back to Kurt, laughing at the absurdity of it all. Inside he felt like crying, but this was better, surely. He needed to be sure but until that happened he needed Kurt to _think _he was.

"Rachel just asked me out."

Kurt laughed. Maybe it'd be okay.

"Oh, that's amazing. She's got a girl crush on you."

Maybe not.

Blaine got up in search of sugar and a stick, not wanting to look Kurt in the eyes.

"Wait a second. Why'd you say yes? You can't go leading her on."

Shit.

"Who says I'm leading her on?"

And the atmosphere darkened, just like that.

"You can't be serious."

Blaine tried to remain nonchalant.

"When we kissed, it felt – it felt good."

"That's because you were drunk."

"What's the harm of going out on one crummy little date?"

Kurt's face dropped as he looked right at him. He rarely drilled into Blaine's head like this, which was lucky because it was just about the most disturbing thing on earth. At that moment, Blaine felt like Kurt could've extracted his soul through his mouth if he'd chosen to. He'd have told Kurt anything out of pure fear.

Cold blue eyes affixed themselves to his.

"You're gay, Blaine."

And then Blaine found himself telling Kurt that he wasn't sure, that he hadn't had a boyfriend, that he needed a chance to try and figure himself out.

And if Kurt had been listening as closely as he did usually, that moment would have allowed him to work out a whole lot of stuff about the mystery that was Blaine Anderson. Because, as Blaine realised to his complete and utter horror, that was the first time an insecurity had escaped. It was _Blaine_, not Blaine Anderson, sitting in front of Kurt.

But instead, fortunately, Kurt was talking over him, attempting to steamroller him back down.

"I can't believe that I'm hearing this right now."

But Blaine couldn't stop telling Kurt. He couldn't stop the words flowing from his lips or the frustrated tears building in his eyes.

"Maybe I'm bi. I don't know."

Because maybe he was.

But by this time, Kurt had blinded himself. He hadn't even realised that there had been a mask there to be shattered, that there were two Blaines with equally fiery temperaments fighting a raging battle inside the boy seated right in front of him. And that meant that he couldn't have foreseen those sharp verbal fragments that were building up behind his friend's lips, bursting to crack through his face and tell Kurt the truth.

Thankfully, Kurt jumped in there first.

"'Bisexual' is term that gay guys in high school use when they want to hold hands with girls and feel like a normal person for a change."

Well, shit. Blaine's turmoil ceased for a second: he knew Kurt was angry and probably didn't mean it, but bisexuality was real, right? He knew it was. But maybe it wasn't for him. Maybe he _did _just want to feel normal. Losing his virginity, showing the others he knew a good time at the party, maybe –

But Blaine knew that Kurt needed to calm down before he said anything else in front of those nosy old people on the next table.

He lowered his voice.

"Whoa. Wait, wait, why are you so angry?"

And then it came. The stupid mentor thing, back to haunt him. Again. Blaine watched as his self-crafted pedestal collapsed right in front of his eyes.

"Because I look up to you. I admire how proud you are of who you are."

Yep, Kurt had it all wrong.

And he wouldn't stop.

"I know what it's like to be in the closet, and here you are about to tiptoe back in."

Blaine was nearly crying. So he channelled it all into anger instead.

"I'm really sorry if this hurts your feelings or your pride or whatever," – though he was really, _really _not – "But however confusing it might be for you, it's actually a lot more confusing for me."

Kurt looked dumbstruck, shocked that _this _was Blaine, that this harsh voice came from the same vocal folds that had sung _Teenage Dream_, that this contorted face was the same one that smiled brightly at him every single day and never failed to cheer him up.

And Blaine went on, going for broke now that the mask had been well and truly cracked into worthless little shards.

"You're 100% sure who you are. Fantastic. Well, maybe we can't all be so lucky."

Kurt paused, collecting himself. Blaine could see the challenge in his eyes.

A counter-attack.

Oh god.

"Yeah, I have – I've had a lot of luck, Blaine. I was really lucky to be chased out of high school by a bully who threatened to kill me."

Blaine felt himself ready to hit back, ready to say that things had gone beyond threats for him and that he _had_nearly _died_, that a bully had taken everything that was precious to him and left him with nothing but metal in his leg and scars all over his body. He nearly said how no one had been there to help him pick up the pieces until Kurt, and that he wouldn't know what to do now he'd turned on him too –

And then, without warning, he transformed into a yet more powerful version of his father. In the worst way possible. His mind toughened, armoured by harsh truths and legal rhetoric that he knew didn't sit at all well on a sixteen year old. Yes, Blaine had inherited some of it, but the rest had been learnt in the hardest way imaginable: this was what happened when an incredibly sharp brain was forced to defend itself with a yet sharper tongue.

He found himself asking, "And why did he do that?"

Kurt hit back. "Because he didn't like who I was."

Blaine felt a thrill run through his body when he knew he'd won, but it was chased by a crushing sadness that came as he dealt the killer blow.

"Sort of exactly what you're saying to me right now, isn't it?"

Bullseye. Jackpot.

Except he hated himself.

Kurt just gaped.

And Blaine snapped back into himself. He had to be honest; he _had _to be if he wasn't going to lose Kurt forever.

"I am – I'm searching, okay? I'm honestly just trying to figure out who I am, and for you of all people to get down on me for that – I didn't think that's who you were."

Kurt's face drooped in a mirror image of his own. He had to get out.

"I'll see you."

God, he was angry.

"I'd say 'bye', but I wouldn't to make you angry."

And he charged off with tears in his eyes, knowing that the past might well have repeated itself as he lost yet another person who'd been close to him.

But maybe it was for the best. It'd all been built on a lie, anyway.

A lie that was perhaps yet bigger than even he had thought.

Because he didn't have the slightest idea who he was any more.

* * *

><p>Blaine didn't speak to Kurt for two whole days. Dalton was small so they saw each other around, but there were no rehearsals to enforce interaction and Kurt wasn't in many of Blaine's classes. They just ignored each other, both astonished and unsettled by the words and actions of the other.<p>

But that wasn't to say that the separation was easy. Blaine very nearly called Kurt to ask for help getting a costume together for his date with Rachel, Kurt nearly called Blaine when he saw a hilarious YouTube clip of a Labrador playing a piano. Both resisted the temptation, hiding in the distance between Lima and Westerville that had been such an inconvenience in the past. Kurt found himself laughing (then crying) alone, Blaine set off to the theatre looking far less good than he could have done.

And the date went well, it really did. He and Rachel laughed, sang, talked and found that they had a freakish amount in common. Sure, Rachel was annoying as hell, but she was also extremely pretty and funny and generous. And talented. She could have been Blaine's perfect match.

But he just didn't feel anything. At all.

But that couldn't be right, because he was bi and he probably liked girls now.

So he waited, gazing at Rachel hoping that his body would tell him to lean in again.

But it never did. The moment just wasn't right, and the angle would have been all wrong, and there were so many people around who could see and –

They had a good time, they really did. But they never got round to kissing, not even when Blaine was dropping Rachel off and there was no one about and the angle was perfect and the moment was still. Blaine just went for the hug like the coward that he was.

"Bye, Blaine. See you soon," Rachel whispered.

"Bye, thanks for tonight."

And Blaine set off out of Lima, completely unkissed and perhaps bisexual too.

As he was driving out onto the interstate, he could have sworn he saw a Lincoln Navigator coming in the opposite direction. It was probably just a trick of the mind.

And even if it wasn't, loads of people have Lincoln Navigators, right?

* * *

><p>The Chapel Choir finished their rehearsal on a C minor chord. It echoed in Blaine's soul, pinging off the walls that enclosed the hollow emptiness of his heart. A melody forever unresolved.<p>

Man, he was sentimental and in desperate need of a medium drip.

After making quick work of the longish drive, Blaine rocked up at the coffee shop like clockwork at exactly 3.30. He didn't even bother looking around for anyone because who would be there to meet him after all this? Who cared that he'd had a pretty shitty time of it these past few weeks?

But then Rachel was just _there_.

And her lips were on his.

And he was kissing her back.

And it felt wrong. So, _so _wrong.

And then Rachel pulled away, and he was exposed to the world.

And to Kurt.

Who was sat right in front of him.

Fuck.

His heart started racing because it was _Kurt _and he didn't know whether the boy hated him or whether there was going to be some kind of lingering animosity between them or –

Oh. God.

"Huh."

He took a breath.

"Yup. I'm gay. 100% gay."

It felt like being that thirteen year old in the swimming pool changing room all over again, except everyone could see him this time. Everyone.

But that meant that they could see Rachel too, and he didn't want to hurt her feelings or embarrass her or whatever. Poor Rachel, what if he'd led her on in some awful way? He looked straight at her.

"Thank you so much for clearing that up for me, Rachel."

His voice had wavered as he'd spoken. He was losing it. Completely. Oh god oh god.

This was too much.

He needed to get out of there, right that second.

"Save my space in line, will you? I gotta go hit the restroom."

And he marched off as purposefully as possible towards the toilets, locked himself in a cubicle and cried his eyes out. Again. He didn't like girls. He never would like girls. And no matter what he did, no matter what he tried, he'd never be anything other than an outsider. He'd never fit in completely, ever.

And that was a really, really hard thing to realise. That glimmer of hope that could have made everything better was gone.

He was gay as ever.

* * *

><p>Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed and he was still crying. Not as violently as before, but the tears were still there.<p>

It was stupid_. He _was stupid for not having accepted it by now, because everything, all his behaviours, all his wishes, all his dreams and all his deepest desires, they all took one prerequisite for granted.

He was _gay_.

He'd always been gay.

He'd always be gay.

He dreamed of living with a man, sleeping with a man, falling in love with a man, walking along beaches into a sunset with a man, marrying a man. Never a woman. That was it for him, that was how it was.

"Blaine, are you in here?"

Fuck.

Blaine wiped his face furiously, trying to eradicate any evidence of his tears.

"Umm, yeah. Just coming." His voice was shaky.

"Err, okay."

He opened the door and saw Kurt at the other end of the bathroom, waiting for him with a small smile. Blaine's breath hitched with anxiety.

"Umm, are you not gonna flush the chain or whatever?"

It then occurred to Blaine that he'd spent so long in the bathroom that Kurt probably thought he'd taken the world's hugest dump. He blushed a fierce red.

"Err, I didn't actually use the toilet."

Kurt looked down at the floor. Blaine looked up at the ceiling.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Kurt lifted his eyes at exactly the same moment that Blaine did, and they exchanged a small smile as they gave each other permission to burst into peals of laughter.

"You still wanna get coffee?" Kurt managed after they'd calmed down a bit.

"Duh, but this time it's on me."

Blaine found himself just looking at Kurt, taking in his face and his eyes and everything about him.

Then he took a breath.

"I'm truly sorry."

"I'm really sorry, too." Kurt paused for a moment as he walked closer to Blaine. "I missed having you around, you know. I found the best YouTube video, I was so sad when you weren't there to see it."

And they hugged, and Blaine cried a bit more without Kurt noticing, and things were fine.

Except that he was gay. And he'd probably be a pariah for life. And his grandfather's punishment would stand.

But at least Kurt was there.

Blaine hoped he always would be.

* * *

><p><strong>AN Phew, it's over. Let me know whether I pulled it off, I tried my best. **

**Before I go, I must make a special mention of heliotropelied who contacted me several weeks ago with the headcanon that Blaine runs off to the restroom to cry and then agreed to look over the chapter for me. Thanks so, so much :)**

**For those who don't know, the epigraph is from the _Dumbo_ Pink Elephant sequence that arises after Dumbo drinks water spiked with absinthe. Watch it if you want nightmares.**

**Two more things – one, Cough Syrup is my favourite Glee song ever. Seriously. Two – Struck By Lightning. Wow. I hope it spreads like Nutella to the UK because it looks _amazing_. Needless to say that I didn't get much work done last night with all those distractions.  
><strong>

**I found this chapter really hard to write so I hope you enjoyed it. **

**Thanks once again for reading and responding :)  
><strong>


	23. Just So

**Chapter 23: Just So **

**Or, How Kurt Hummel Got a Red Face**

'_He asked, 'What does the Crocodile have for dinner?' Then everybody said, 'Hush!' in a loud and dretful tone, and they spanked him immediately and directly, without stopping, for a long time.'_

- The Elephant's Child,

from the _Just So_ stories by Rudyard Kipling

* * *

><p>Kurt walked into the main hall of the Dalton Library, casting his eyes around the room in search of a helmet of hair and a towering skyscraper of books. Sure enough, Blaine was hunched over his work in an alcove between the Law and Music sections, his face screwed up in a look of unadulterated concentration as he leafed through a particularly thick tome. They'd been spending a lot of time together since their argument, each realising the necessity of the other, and Kurt sighed happily as he moved over towards his friend. He basked in the Library's comforting warm lighting and towering bookshelves, savouring his last few moments of freedom from his Geometry textbook.<p>

Blaine was so deep in concentration that he didn't notice when Kurt finally took the seat opposite him, nor did he hear the soft thump made by the large textbook as it was deposited onto the desk. It was only after several minutes when he took a moment to look around for inspiration that he finally saw the bright blue eyes staring right back at him.

"Kurt! Sorry, I was kinda…" He bit his lip.

Kurt rolled his eyes good-humouredly. "Honestly Blaine, it happens every time I come here. Old news. What are you reading about?"

Blaine peered down at the book and then back at Kurt. "I'm writing a paper on linguistic change in the twentieth century. I'm looking at Rudyard Kipling's 'The Elephant's Child' story and thinking about the why that same narrative wouldn't be written with that vocabulary for today's children. Namely because it's all about spanking and elongating trunks."

Kurt blushed, winced and looked down at his own textbook. Seeing it, he winced again. Blaine chuckled a bit before continuing.

"I'm also researching boring stuff like syntax, but you know, it's more than worth it cause I can write 'penis' all over my essay and not get in trouble for it. What are you doing?"

Kurt had reddened further, by this point doing a pretty good impression of a British post box.

"Geometry."

Blaine looked at the book and sighed in sympathy. "That book was so boring. I finished it in the middle of last year and it still pains me to even look at it."

Kurt gaped. "You finished this as a _freshman_?"

Blaine reddened.

"Umm."

"Don't worry Blaine, I'd never judge you. I can, however, hypothesise that you were abducted by aliens at an early age and injected with a super-intelligence hormone that redirected protein from your body to your brain. Short Blaine equals massive intelligence."

"And an even more massive… Well."

Blaine laughed playfully for a bit before realising that Kurt was practically suffocating from mortification. He bit his lip and looked back down to his work, pretending he hadn't said anything.

After a few beats of silence, Kurt desperately tried to clear the air of its lingering awkwardness.

"Seriously though, don't be ashamed of you know… being smart. I like you for you, freakish intelligence included."

Blaine blushed with a strange sense of happiness before a feeling of dread rushed through his body. This was how it always was – how, he supposed, it would always be. All happiness would be tinged by guilt, all future friendships (and relationships, if he ever found someone crazy enough to want the real him) would built upon a denial of truth. How could Kurt say that he liked Blaine for who he was when he hardly anything about him? His character assessment was probably way off the mark, and there was not a damn thing Blaine could do about it.

Well, except _telling _him…

But that would change everything. They'd have to start from scratch, building themselves back up from nothing. Blaine would practically be reintroducing himself to Kurt, and that would be absurd. No, that could never happen – Blaine liked things as they were too much to change anything.

He looked into Kurt's eyes. Thankfully, his friend hadn't seemed to notice the fleeting downcast expression that had unfurled across his face, only looking up in expectation of Blaine calling an end to the school day.

Sure enough, it came like clockwork on the dot of five.

"I've had enough of studying. Coffee?"

"Of course."

And they set off to the Lima Bean, ready for a boost of caffeine after a long day of class and rehearsals.

* * *

><p>The next day at Dalton was similarly tedious for Blaine, illuminated only by the breathtaking improvement of the Chapel Choir now that it had incorporated the amazing countertenor range of the fabulous Kurt Hummel. Blaine's breath still hitched each time Kurt effortlessly plucked a note out of that strong falsetto, and by now he was unapologetically writing him solo lines to show him off. The Warblers were <em>so <em>going to win in Beijing, and there was not a damn thing that would stop them.

The rehearsal drew to a close and most of the Warblers exited into the Quad, eager to get home. Blaine lingered behind, shuffling between the choir stalls as he picked up the stray manuscripts that the other guys had dropped. He turned his back to the central aisle as he bent down to retrieve a manuscript that had been wedged between the back of the seat and a prayer cushion. Its bent corners and torn edges made Blaine question whether it had been mauled by a dog, but then he remembered that it was in David's spot and that explained everything.

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Kurt?

"Hey, have you thought about our set list for Regionals?"

Wes.

"Umm, no. I was just thinking of Katy and Pink, you know? Easy enough."

Wes smiled.

"I know you know what you're doing, Blaine. I can't wait for this, it's going to awesome."

Wes turned to leave and set off towards the door. A second later, he turned back.

"One more thing."

Blaine looked back up at him.

"Are you and Kurt dating yet?"

Blaine felt himself redden. It wasn't like that, it was just a stupid crush. He couldn't help it if Kurt was funny and caring and really really pretty, just as he couldn't alter the fact that neither he nor Kurt was ready for a relationship. Besides, he messed everything up. And this was one thing he couldn't afford to damage.

He just shook his head.

"Too bad," said Wes.

And that was that.

Blaine walked out to his car fifteen minutes later, trying to will away his flaming face. And damn, Kurt was standing right there with that stupid bag and stupid blazer and stupid shoes ready for their coffee meeting that he'd been kinda thinking about all day and –

"Hello Blaine. Ready for coffee?"

"Oh, yeah, ready. Hope you haven't been waiting long."

"Don't worry, I know you are busy."

They stood smiling at each other for a while before Kurt gave a slight cough and they climbed into their respective sides of the car. Blaine drove them towards Lima and before long, they had pulled up at the Lima Bean and were standing in line chatting about the set list and whether Katy or Joan Armatrading –

"Well, if it isn't my sweet, sweet porcelain."

Blaine turned around to see a tall woman in a ridiculous gold tracksuit. She managed to look ludicrous and majestic at the same time, probably something to do with the fact that she looked exactly like an Oscar statuette in a raincoat. It was Sue Sylvester, he knew that before Kurt said a word. He just stared. And stared. And –

"I like my enemas piping hot."

What. The. Hell. Like, really?

"So, I happen to have some top secret intel."

Blaine was all ears, hoping she'd come out with some amusing bullshit about the New Directions hiring a whale as their thirteenth member or how they'd be travelling to the venue on a hovercraft.

"Will Schuester has finally realised that his team's Achilles' heel is their utter lack of sex appeal."

That wasn't ridiculous. The New Directions were so vanilla they could be made into a thousand tubs of sickly sweet ice cream. And The Warblers did need to differentiate themselves, if only to make up for their serious lack of dancing.

And sex was something The Warblers could bring to the table easy peasy, especially as all his friends were so… well, vocal, about their sexual exploits. And he could act, it was fine.

He'd do anything to help The Warblers win.

And was Sue pouring in the _whole _bottle of syrup? Shit, she was something else. And Oral Intensity seemed like they'd be actual rivals now that Sue was their task master. People in puffer jackets tended to get things done.

And then she'd left, just as quickly as she'd come. She ordered everyone in the shop to give her a round of applause as she left.

Blaine complied. Kurt didn't.

But in amongst the bullshit she was spouting, Blaine was pretty sure she was right. The Warblers _would _have to get more appealing. The world revolved on sex appeal. If it could sell Justin Bieber, it could sell anything.

"We got to hold an emergency meeting."

"Why?"

"The judges at regionals have an eye out for something new…"

Kurt's eyes were a picture of panic.

"The Warblers got to do something sexified."

Blaine was pretty sure that Kurt's face had turned even redder than his scarf. He turned away as if looking at the cake stand, but Blaine knew that facial expression anywhere and it meant only one thing – Kurt was _embarrassed_.

He grabbed his arm and led them to a table. Kurt went impossibly redder.

"Hey, why are you so against this idea?"

Kurt just played with the lid of his coffee cup, bending its rim out of shape.

"Why are you so uncomfortable? You can tell me, I won't laugh at you."

Kurt's face flamed red.

Damn. It was the sexy thing.

Because yes, Kurt was very, very pretty. Extremely pretty. Crushworthily pretty.

But not really that sexy.

Certainly not _sexual_.

Blaine's memory flitted back to every time sex had even vaguely come up between them, in the way it normally does between friends, realising that it had never been a _conversation_. It had just been badly timed jokes on Blaine's part, and awkward silences on Kurt's.

Shit. He'd have to fix this.

Why was he so goddamn nervous?

"Is it the sexy thing? Because I'm not exactly comfortable with the idea of using sex in performances either, well, sometimes it's okay if they're actors and they know what they're getting themselves into and it's legit and the site is marked XXX…"

Kurt stared at his coffee cup as if it was the arc of the covenant. Blaine felt ready to faceplant onto the desk at having basically announced to an entire coffee shop that he liked porn.

This was so awkward.

But thinking about it some more (as the lingering silence allowed him to do), he realised that it was actually all quite stupid. He knew for a fact that a lot of the boys at Dalton watched porn, that he watched porn, that probably most people in the coffee shop had watched porn. Yet none of them would freely admit to it. Prissiness was stupid. And it led to misinformation. Which could lead to worse things, unchangeable things. Like babies. Or incurable disease. It was all so ridiculous.

"Look, in all seriousness, it'll probably only amount to a bit of hip grinding and David doing a backflip."

But Kurt just looked horrified.

It wasn't helping.

After half a minute of silence, Kurt finally found his voice.

"Umm, Blaine, I'm not really comfortable. Everyone's kinda staring. Can we leave? Please?"

Kurt was flustered beyond belief, that much was clear to see.

"Sure, let's go."

And that was it.

Except it wasn't.

* * *

><p>The next day, Wes strolled into The Warblers rehearsal grinning slyly.<p>

"Guess who just secured _the _barn for tomorrow? And I'll give you the clue: he is the sexiest of sex gods."

Well, Blaine sure as hell wasn't him. And, judging from the crowd of whooping boys, he guessed he was missing other pieces of vital information. He exchanged quizzical glances with a similarly confused Kurt.

When the hollering had died down a bit, he decided to ask. Other people must be confused, right? Kurt certainly was.

"Umm, Wes, I'm guessing it's you. Right?"

Wes just looked at him as if he had just announced that the capital of France was Sparkle.

"Duh. And you're gay, so you have even less of an excuse to fail to recognise the fine specimen of a man you see before you."

Kurt snorted. Wes mock frowned.

"Anyway," Blaine continued, "Why is this barn thing so funny?"

At this, Wes looked across at David and threw him a knowing wink. The other guys laughed. Kurt looked confused. Blaine felt completely excluded. Was 'barn' some kind of innuendo he'd never heard of? But his Internet research on both gay and straight sex (in preparation for Rachel, though it sickened him now to have thought it would ever come to that) had been thorough to say the least; surely he knew all the special jargon by now.

Wes looked at him pityingly for a moment before continuing.

"Blaine, it's not a stupid joke at your expense or whatever, so get that thought out of your pretty little head right now."

Wes knew him far too well.

"That doesn't make me any less sorry that you will probably never get to experience the joy of the barn. _The_ Barn. It's a Dalton institution, man. See, it's this dilapidated shed a few fields from Crawford Country Day. And the guys go there to hook up, because it's pretty safe and discreet and everything else you'd want a lurrrrrrve shack to be. It even has a foam machine, man."

Wes drifted off dreamily, leaving Blaine feeling sick and intrigued in equal measure. Kurt just looked sick.

Wes eventually came back to his senses.

"So anyway, I reserved the barn on the online central booking system…"

That was it, Blaine really was about to be sick. A central booking system? What the hell?

"… so we can test out our sex appeal on some fine young women. Whom I just so happen to have contact details for. Umm. Yeah. And before you say anything, they weren't all mine."

If Blaine had needed any more proof that hook-ups just wouldn't do it for him, gay or straight, the sick twisty feeling in the pit of his stomach was all he would ever need by way of evidence. Kurt just looked downright appalled.

But the idea of testing their sexiness. That was good, surely? Screaming girls (well, girls full stop) were hardly his area of expertise; he needed as much help as he could get. The Warblers _had _to win.

"We'll do it," he said finally.

The guys just looked at him as if he hadn't had a choice anyway.

* * *

><p>After a brief rehearsal at the end of the next day, The Warblers skipped last period and piled into five cars. They travelled down to Crawford in a convoy, their pristine vehicles sparkling against the grubby HGVs and pick up trucks.<p>

Blaine's car was filled (well and truly) with Nick, Jeff and Jon in the back and Kurt in the passenger seat. The conversation was loud and raucous as Blaine sped down the highway, the air filled with boasts and gibes and details of so many uses for a foam machine than Blaine's brain couldn't even begin to process them all.

But Kurt just sat there, fiddling with an invisible hangnail.

"Hey Kurt, are you nervous about the solo?"

The other boys were lost in their own world of guyish banter. Blaine was unbelievably thankful that Kurt was there.

Kurt looked at him with a stony expression.

"I'm sure it'll be fine."

His voice had never sounded so monotonous. Blaine felt a pang of guilt reverberate around his body. He waited a moment to be sure that the guys in the back were being as raucous as they had been before he continued.

"Is it the sexy thing?"

Kurt twitched.

"Don't worry about it, my advice is just to go for it. I mean, it's not like you'd actually want to _impress _any of those girls, is it?"

Kurt threaded his fingers together and took a deep breath.

"I guess."

And they sat in silence, listening to stories of Nick's incredible foam sex and Jon's first time (in the hay), until they finally pulled up at a dilapidated barn.

"Is this it?" Blaine asked, even though he'd kind of worked out that the guys' perkiness was probably down to his correct navigation.

Wes strutted out of the barn door.

"Hey guys, I decided last minute to steal Dalton's stage equipment. Man, it was a squeeze in the minivan but no pain, no gain, right? Hopefully my back won't be too sore for what I have in mind tonight."

He winked and the guys each gave Wes a high five. Blaine had never felt less like participating in straight-guy social rituals, and hung around on the margins of the group. Kurt seemed to be feeling the same discomfort, only looking up from the dusty ground when Wes began to speak once more.

"Blaine, you'll be doing the opening announcement."

Blaine's face was a picture of shock.

"Umm, why me? I would have thought I'd be the _least _qualified."

"Exactly. You're gay, Blaine, that's why. You'll be setting the tone without raining on any of our parades. We don't want anyone getting an unfair advantage, if you know what I mean. Also, this will be a great opportunity to see if you can convince them you're straight. I mean, you're gay as anything and _we_ all know it, but you'll need to get all the _laaaadies _on board if we're ever gonna secure their votes. Consider it an experiment."

"I'm not sure if –"

"Decided," said Wes. "The girls are already inside, so get ready. Let's go, Warblers."

After a quick show circle, they entered the barn. Half of The Warblers lined up against one wall, the others against the other, and Blaine strolled out into the centre. He tried his best, turning up his charm to the max.

"So, what we're going for here today, ladies, is something a little – "

What came next was practically a _growl_. What the hell?

"A little sexy. Are we screamworthy? Do we make your knees turn to jelly? So without further ado, hold onto your bobby socks girls, because we're about to rock your world."

The intro to the song sounded fantastic. Blaine felt the tingles of performance running through his body, coursing through his veins like pulses of electricity. And then there was Kurt. His voice sounded magnificent.

But then he started dancing. And it was quite weird. _Really_ weird.

And those faces…

But then he did a leg kick. And wow. Oh god.

Blaine tried to look at the audience, knowing that he should be focussing on being the straight guy (without a boner for his gay best friend). He had to keep up the illusion for one more minute, he had to convince those girls that he could be an object of their desire. Judging from their screams, somehow it was working. But he just couldn't keep his eyes off Kurt, who was so effortlessly sexy with that high kick and when he was sidling up to Blaine when they'd turned the foam machine on (he made a mental note to disinfect his hands afterwards) and yet so funny-looking in his interpretation of the hastily put together dance routine.

That was it.

Kurt was really, really hot. Really hot and really pretty.

Umm.

But only when he wasn't trying.

And at Regionals, he'd be trying.

Shit.

* * *

><p>The barn emptied very quickly after the foam party, with most Warblers exiting the building with a Crawford girl in tow.<p>

Only Kurt and Blaine remained in the barn.

Well, only Kurt and Blaine and two lingering Crawford girls. Two girls who were giggling into their hands. What the hell were they after?

Whatever it was, they approaching him. Fast. Holding out two slips of paper. Oh shit.

"Call us."

'Us?' They wanted a threesome? That was hilarious, especially as they were behaving as if they were about twelve. Blaine couldn't even begin to comprehend how such immature girls could ever be ready for something as personal and serious as sex. But it was on offer, wasn't it? And damn, he'd nearly fallen into it at the wrong time too. He couldn't really be one to judge.

He let them down gently.

"Sweet, but not on your team."

They rolled their eyes. He'd passed. They'd honestly thought he was _straight_. Blaine wasn't sure how he felt about that. He was _gay_, gay gay gay gay. So very gay. But maybe guys wouldn't know and he'd be single forever and –

He cast his attention back to Kurt as the girls left the room. He was sat combing his hair like a merman on a rock, and the setting sun that streamed in through the windows cast his face in a misty orange glow. Blaine was struck by how beautiful Kurt was. Inside and out.

But it was a stupid crush. It would be unfair on Kurt to act on it. They could still be friends. They _needed _to remain friends; they were far too dependent on each other not to be.

But Blaine knew he had to say something about those faces. That Kurt was naturally the sexiest, most perfect person he'd ever seen and that he didn't need to try to make himself appealing to others; he already was, effortlessly so.

But the big question was how to tell him. Like, he couldn't exactly go up to Kurt and be like, 'hey, you're like the hottest person in the world without trying, so don't try.'

Damn. He couldn't soften the blow. He'd just have to be honest, direct and truthful. A good friend, right?

"Are you okay? You kept making those weird faces the whole song."

"Those weren't weird faces, those were my sexy faces," Kurt said, as if it explained everything.

Blaine knew then that he'd have to deal out a bit of tough love.

"It looked like you were having gas pains or something."

And then Kurt just nodded. _Nodded_.

"Great. How are we supposed to get up on the stage at regionals and sell sexy to the judges when I have as much sexual appeal and knowledge as a baby penguin?"

Oh.

_Oh_.

_That _was why he'd been so agitated these last couple of days. It wasn't discomfort, it was more than that. It was an actual insecurity.

Blaine felt like the worst person in the world. He had to help Kurt, he had to.

"We'll figure something out."

Kurt looked up at him with fearful, resigned eyes.

"Let's go round to yours."

Kurt looked up at him, fidgeting.

"Nononononononononono not like _that_. No." Blaine overclarified.

Kurt smiled slightly at the misunderstanding, before following Blaine out of the barn towards the car. All the other vehicles had gone, leading Blaine to conclude that the surrounding forest glades would be rather overcapacity right now. Eurgh.

"Umm, so we can practice if you want. Like, the sexiness thing. Man, I felt so awkward in there. It was so bad, did you see those girls who wanted a threesome with me? That is just –"

He trailed off when he noticed that Kurt was singing softly to himself with his fingers in his ears.

Blaine began to yell. "Hey, hey Kurt, stop that."

After a while, Kurt did.

"Hey, why does this upset you so much? It's okay, I mean –"

"Don't you get it, Blaine?" Kurt began tiredly, "There are two things that make you and I very different in this department. One is that I am rather more _obvious_ than you. My voice, my clothes, even the way I walk, they just lead people to _assume_. You, on the other hand, can pass. I mean, I _know _you. I know you like 'gay' things just as much as you like 'guyish' things, if not more. But you _look _straight. And you can act straight too. I can't."

Blaine nodded, choosing not to respond for now.

"The other thing is that you are obviously a lot more… comfortable… with this stuff. I mean, you've probably done way more stuff than me –"

"Kurt," Blaine began softly, "I told you I've never had a boyfriend before."

"Oh," Kurt breathed. "I just kinda thought you were like the other guys, you know. Hooking up with –"

Blaine just shook his head. He had to be honest.

"No. You know, that's not really for me. I guess I'm more of an all-or-nothing kinda guy."

"I just thought… because you seem so at ease with it all."

"I am, I mean, I think I am. But I was lucky, Kurt."

He took a deep breath. Kurt was always really honest. And it made him want to be, too. He wanted to make Kurt feel better.

"I was really lucky. I had … people… who kind of made me do research, made me look this stuff up and get it settled in my head. The Internet is a great tool, you just have to know where to look."

Kurt looked at him with wide eyes.

"Uncomfortable?" Blaine asked.

"I guess…"

"Don't worry, we'll just practice for regionals and that will be that."

After that, they sat in silence until they finally pulled into the driveway of 415 Whitman Avenue.

"Ooh look Kurt, we're at your house," Blaine said desperately.

"Better get it over with, I suppose," Kurt muttered. "Sooner the better."

* * *

><p>Before long they were sat upstairs in Kurt's bedroom, squidged up shoulder to shoulder looking into Kurt's vanity.<p>

"This is so awkward," Kurt muttered, already flushing an extreme red and pulling silly faces in the mirror.

"No it isn't. I'm not judging you, I promise."

That seemed to calm Kurt down.

They continued from there, from sensual to sultry. But both expressions looked identical. Identically unsexy, both ruining Kurt's beauty because everything that made him attractive was natural and effortless. It just wasn't right. So Blaine smiled, delivering his honest assessment as light-heartedly as possible.

But then Kurt stood up. Oh god.

"This is pointless Blaine. I don't know how to be sexy because I don't know the first thing about sex."

Oh.

It wasn't just insecurity, then. It was an actual deficiency of knowledge that went way beyond a lack of experience.

Blaine tried to ease the tension, laughing as Kurt turned redder than he'd ever seen before.

"Kurt, you're blushing."

But Kurt didn't laugh. He just pursued the honesty path to its bitter end.

"I've tried watching _those _movies, but I just get horribly depressed and I think about how they were all kids once, and they all have mothers, and _god _what would their mothers think, and why would you get that tattoo there?"

Okay. Okay. Kurt had seen some quite hardcore porn. Okay.

"Then maybe we should have a conversation about it. I'll tell you what I know."

Blaine settled into a cross-legged position, ready to tell Kurt everything he needed to find out. That wasn't weird, right? Orrin had done the same for him, it was practically his _duty _to help Kurt out. And it was hardly Kurt's fault – from his research for a school council motion, he knew that Dalton had no sex ed. at all, and that McKinley only offered the very basics of straight sex ed. They were relying on Kurt finding out for himself. And so far, he hadn't. Surely he'd want to know, surely. He'd start with the basics, condoms, how things _worked_, and then –

But Kurt clearly didn't want to know – not the graphic details, not anything. He liked romance, he liked Broadway musicals and the touch of the fingertips and a world where love and sex could exist independently of each other. Blaine knew that for him, love and sex would be bound tighter than anything else he would ever experience. Sex couldn't operate without love, and true love couldn't operate without sex. Right?

He looked up to see that Kurt was on the verge of tears. Surely he didn't think he'd go his whole life without having sex once? That could never happen. Especially as he was so… yeah.

"Kurt, you're gonna have to learn about it some day."

He'd taken it too far.

"I think you should leave."

Blaine stared at him in disbelief for a second, before getting up to go.

"Sorry," he muttered on his way out.

And he was sorry, well and truly. Sorry for what he'd done, but mostly sorry for what he was about to do.

"I'll see you on Monday."

"Bye Blaine," Kurt whispered.

And that was the end of it. For now.

* * *

><p>The Hummel garage was located three blocks away and Blaine could quite easily have walked. But instead, he opted in favour of the car simply to avoid rousing Kurt's suspicions.<p>

Before long he had pulled up at the shop, parked outside and walked in. Sure enough, Burt was there working on a car, hunched over the engine and reassembling it part by part. A few other employees were hanging around, surprisingly oblivious to the strange newcomer Blaine knew he was.

"Need a hand?"

As soon as Burt looked up at him, he felt at ease. The guy was so easy going, so comforting, so open. Blaine felt he could tell him anything without judgment. Man, he'd missed Burt. He so desperately wanted to please him, and he handed him the carburettor without so much as a second thought and then –

"How'd you know which one it was?"

And then his mouth moved independently of his brain, and before long he was telling Burt all about his father's shitty parenting and his attempts to make him straight and how Burt should give Kurt sex ed. because Dalton doesn't have it and how Kurt might get chatted up at a bar (because he _was_, after all,really hot) and wow, he felt a bit… jealous… and how it might be too late and Kurt might get STDs or not know about protection and how even though he was 100% gay, yes,100% (did Burt know about that little crisis?), he still couldn't talk to Kurt because –

"Sorry if I'm overstepping."

"You are."

And he turned to leave, heading out towards the door. Damn. Now Kurt _and _Burt would hate him. All he wanted to do was help.

"See you later, Blaine." Burt yelled.

Maybe there was hope yet.

* * *

><p>By Monday, Blaine had practically epilated every hair out of his head out of utter anxiety. He strolled around looking for Kurt, not sure whether he was more hopeful that Burt had acted or that Kurt had been left to (not) look it all up himself.<p>

Suddenly, as he was walking down the corridor between his Calc. and History classes, a hissing voice came into his ear.

"Oh my God, Blaine, why did you go and speak to my _Dad_? I had the most embarrassing sex talk in the whole world. He even went to the _free clinic_. I'm so mortified."

"Umm, sorry?" Blaine offered. Kurt didn't seem _that _cross, thankfully.

"It's fine, I was just a little embarrassed," said Kurt. "I'm not really the one who has to worry; at least I haven't made Burt Hummel think I'm some kind of sex pest…"

It was Blaine's turn to redden.

"Oh god, is that what he thought? Oh god."

"You spoke to him about sex, Blaine. That's hilarious. What kid does that?" And he started laughing. Really, really hard. "You're so weird, Blaine."

Blaine laughed too. A bit. Out of relief more than anything. But his chest constricted and he felt tears in his eyes because he didn't know how to react to stuff like this. He and Orrin hadn't exactly been in a usual situation _before _the dance, and he'd certainly been anything but a typical teenager after it. Kurt knew he was messed up, he knew he had no sense of etiquette or decorum. And he found it funny.

But at least he was laughing.

And safe.

And, hopefully, he'd one day find the right guy and he could have a meaningful relationship with someone who wasn't as socially obtuse as he was.

Blaine had done his job.

And now it was none of his business.

* * *

><p><strong>AN Sorry about the delay. Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Let me know what you thought :) Thanks to run. live. love (w/o spaces) for the epigraph.  
><strong>

**EEEEEEEE Original Song next. Next. Yeahhhhh.**


	24. Permission

**Chapter 24 – Permission**

'_The Forest Department has given permission for a private elephant owner from Kerala to keep two jumbos in Bangalore.'_

- 'Permission to Allow Kerala Elephants to Enter the City',

From an article featured by the Express News Service, India. (29/12/11)

* * *

><p>It was none of their business.<p>

Why should he care that everyone at Dalton, teachers included, treated them like they were together? Why did his heart leap every time people referred to them as KurtandBlaine or, more rarely, as BlaineandKurt? Did anyone notice how his breath hitched whenever Kurt came into view, how his cheeks reddened and his voice faltered? Why did Wes keep feeling the need to run up behind Kurt and make smoochy faces? Why couldn't he concentrate on anything other than Kurt's eyes and how beautifully blue they were?

And _why_ did Blaine keep having these thoughts about a friend who'd clearly moved on from a misguided crush he'd had months ago?

All he knew was that he couldn't get Kurt out of his head. It had started off quite innocently, with Blaine wondering what it would be like to hold Kurt's hand again, what Kurt would be like if they kissed, whether he would be able to trust Kurt with more than kissing.

But now he was in the shower so often that even his mom was beginning to notice that his apparent concern for personal hygiene went way beyond the norm, and his concentration was so lax that he sometimes left his key in the front door or his cooked hot pocket in the microwave. Sometimes he –

"Blaine… BLAINE."

His mom was staring at him from behind the kitchen island.

"Uh, yeah?"

"Blaine, is there any reason for your swim kit being in the oven?"

He must've mixed it up with his food. At least she hadn't found the hot pocket, which was presumably now festering in the laundry basket…

"Umm, it's drying."

"But you've chlorinated my cookware!"

"Sorry."

He tried to walk off but she grabbed his arm, holding it so tight he keeled backwards towards her. Realising there was no escape, he turned around to look at her.

"What is going on with you?"

"'m just tired."

"I've seen you function way better than this on two hours of sleep. Really what is it?"

"Dunno."

That was never going to work.

"Blaine, this will be the first and last time I meddle in your appearance, but Francine will be round shortly and you are currently far from presentable. Sort your hair out, sort your clothes out, sort yourself out. Then we might be capable of a half-civilised conversation."

And then she looked him up and down again and her eyes narrowed.

"Since when have you worn a wristwatch? What happened to the pocket watch your grandfather bought you?"

Blaine's left hand swaddled his right wrist protectively as his fingers stroked across the clockface.

"Umm, I think it's in a drawer somewhere."

She smiled and slowly edged towards him, gently prising his hand away from the watch wrist so she could get a closer look. He found himself taking deep breaths, much like when he was younger when he'd taken gasping lungfuls before any sentence he ever spoke.

"When did you buy this? It's nice."

And then Blaine's motormouth got the better of him.

"Oh no, Kurt got me this one for me for Christmas." he said, unbuckling the strap. He paused for a moment before continuing, realising he may as well carry on now that he'd got this far. "It has an elephant engraved onto the bottom side, see, and the wheel for adjusting the time is on the left side because I'm left handed. _So _awesome."

She smiled down at the watch for about 30 seconds, her eyes lighting up as she saw the clockface and then the engraved back and then the little wheel at the side. Then she began to shake her head.

"I knew it," she eventually managed through her grin.

Blaine didn't know what to think to that. All he could do was wait for whatever she said next.

And then it came.

"You're DATING!"

Urgh.

"Do you know how I know? Do you know how I know? It's because it's like you're five again, obsessed with power rangers and music and elephants. Only this time, you're obsessed with a _boy_."

Her voice was getting _way _too loud. Blaine felt himself redden, shrivelling under her delighted gaze.

"Umm, nope. No. I don't have a boy- boy – a boyfriend, Kurt or otherwise."

It was awkward just _saying _the word, never mind actually discussing having one.

"But you really fancy him, right?"

She actually winked. Actually. Winked.

"Umm." If Blaine knew one thing, it was that he _really _didn't want to be having this conversation with his mother. Especially when he was pretty sure that his thoughts about Kurt were based on nothing more than a stupid crush that would prove as fleeting as the feelings Kurt had had for him.

She carried on obliviously, her playful grin warming up as it turned into a beaming smile of contentment.

"How does he know about the elephants?"

"Oh, umm, I just… He's really observant about sartorial choices, you know. And when I freaked out at swimming…"

She nodded her head encouragingly.

"He saw my necklace."

It was the first time he had acknowledged that he even wore the elephant. Karen had known not to point it out when she'd first seen it, and ever since it had just been there. No questions, no comments.

"The one Orrin got you?"

She was encouraged when he didn't wince at the mention of his friend's name, and smiled as he began to nod slowly.

"Yeah. So I guess he knows I like elephants."

"Does he know about –" Her smile disappeared as she failed to say it.

Blaine's head shook so violently that his already messy hair further escaped the remaining gel that secured it.

"Blaine."

Her voice was more authoritative than he'd heard in a long time, though it carried no hint of accusation.

"I can't tell him. He'll probably think I'm the worst friend for not having told him already, and I don't want him to treat me any differently or even _think _of me any differently. And I don't want him to think I'm in love with Orrin because I'm not, but I still miss him so much and I don't know what to do or… and I don't think of Kurt like that anyway. We're just friends, like, I… I just don't think I can tell him about all the… all the _stuff_, I just can't. And even if he was interested in dating me, which he _so _isn't, I just don't think I could pretend that part of my life hadn't happened because it's kinda part of who I am but…"

The doorbell rang.

Karen nodded at him sadly, reflecting on how she'd just seen the excitable five-year-old Blaine edge himself back into his unwanted teenage shell in the course of a single conversation. He began to climb the stairs as she went to answer the door.

And then she let Francine in, and the conversation gave way to talk of new conservatories and the square-footage of games rooms.

* * *

><p>Upstairs in his room, Blaine arranged 'Misery' in one night. It was hard because he was still reeling from his mom's excitement, trying to figure out what it meant. Maybe... maybe she wouldn't object so much to a boyfriend if he ever managed to find someone crazy enough to date him.<p>

He played the song back on his Sibelius music software.

It'd do.

He was happy enough with it.

It was 11PM. He was more than tempted just to be done with it and go to sleep.

But then Kurt had texted at exactly 23:11 (he'd remembered) and said he was excited to sing it. Blaine didn't want to disappoint him with a mediocre effort, this was _Kurt_; he wanted to show off what he could do. So he set to work, adding in extra riffs, extra vocal runs, extra Blaine super special solo moments. He had to make sure it was faultless; even the desk drumming was finely choreographed, written onto the manuscript so no one could be in any doubt when he emailed it out later on that night and then –

And then it was morning recess, right between Italian and a Physics quiz. He knew Kurt would be cramming for the assessment like a madman in the study room, partly because they were in the same class but mostly because Blaine knew Kurt (and Kurt's timetable) backwards. He hadn't really bothered studying for it because he'd been tired after arranging 'Misery'. It didn't really matter, anyway.

Bursting into the study room, he yelled the initial 'Oh yeah' and the Warblers leapt into action. He threw all his papers up into the air, watching as manuscripts mingled with physics notes as they fluttered to the floor.

_So scared of breaking it that you won't let it bend._

Kurt seemed into it.

_Sometimes these cuts are so much deeper than they seem._

_You'd rather cover up, I'd rather let them be._

Was that a Burberry-esque _birdcage cover_?

_I am in misery_.

Kurt was going to be _so _impressed. It was their song for regionals, how could he _not_ like it?

He was on top of the world.

* * *

><p>But then, like everything else in Blaine Anderson's life, it all fell to shit.<p>

First, Kurt had said, "I feel like we're Blaine and the Pips." It hurt so much more because Blaine knew Kurt was _right_; it wasn't just something he could pass off as a moment of green-eyed indictment or a fit of jealousy, he'd been showing off. Deeply unappealing.

He'd gone off to Physics with a heavy chest and, more importantly, separate from Kurt. After finally making it to the Science Wing and then his class, he sat down.

Turning the test over and looking down, he realised that the day had just got a whole lot worse.

Before him sat a single essay question. No formulae at all, just two sentences typed in size 12 Times New Roman at the top of an otherwise blank sheet of letter paper. And for the first time in an exam, Blaine really panicked.

_Who has the greater ethical responsibility: society, or the scientist themselves? Discuss, in relation to the works of at least two thinkers you have studied._

He hadn't done the vising, let alone the _re_vising. He'd hated the scientific ethics classes, entertaining himself through every dreary minute with either Warbler arrangements or staring at a certain someone sat in the row next to his. Fail to prepare and prepare to fail. That was him all over.

He ended up just writing some inelegant waffle based on a few dimly-remembered recollections of the writings of Schopenhauer. Fail. He sighed as he first wrote out all he could remember and then all he could bullshit, ending on the idea that choices are made according to our nature so neither is responsib – he'd confused himself. Whatever.

_Our actions are necessary and determined because "every human being, even every animal, after the motive has appeared, must carry out the action which alone is in accordance with his inborn and immutable character_".

Damn, his essay sucked: Schopenhauer hadn't even been talking about scientists when he'd written that. Worse, Blaine could only be thankful that _something _had stuck in his head. Yep, that was how dire the situation was.

And then it was lunch. Try as he might, he couldn't find Kurt after the class so he'd sat on his own and dwelt on the failure his Physics test had been. Failfailfailfail. He was stupid.

And then he'd had English which had been okay, and History which had been less than okay, and then, when the final bell tolled, he dragged his feet to the Science Wing to pick up his essay.

He knocked on Dr. Lancaster's door, dread coursing through his body.

He knew it was bad as soon as he saw his teacher's face. Dr. Lancaster's face told it all, her eyes swimming in disappointment. It shook him more than shouting ever could.

He reluctantly lowered his eyes to the sheets of lined paper, flicking through them until he saw the red scrawl at the foot of the page.

D-.

Blaine's stomach lurched.

And then the comment.

_This is an adequate response from someone who has clearly not bothered to engage with any of the material we have discussed in class. Schopenhauer's work is __not__ primarily based on scientific ethics, and is therefore largely irrelevant to the somewhat flimsy angle of debate you decided to pursue. Though your writing was as fluent and enjoyable as always, it could not mask the poor content and lack of argument which together brought about the failure of this piece: it was your eloquence, rather than any degree of critical thought, which ultimately saved you from the 'F' this paper truly deserved. You failed to convey any trace of your own viewpoint, and you did not fulfil the requirement of including the work __two_ _philosophers. It was very much a case of style over substance, a regrettable outcome for someone whose track record singles them out as both a gifted writer and a critical thinker. You will redo this essay under timed conditions next week. Be sure to read the material before then. You have become complacent, and it is not acceptable._

Blaine's heart sunk. This was the worst grade he'd ever received in his life, unsurprising given that the essay was his worst ever piece of work. And Dr. Lancaster was looking at him with such _disappointment_.

"How do you feel?"

"Pretty bad."

"Well, I was very … surprised in you, I suppose. You received the worst grade in the year, so I am forced to consider moving you to another class."

"But –"

"Blaine, this work was unacceptable. You need to step up if you wish to remain in this group - "

A rhythmic knock sounded on the door.

"COME IN," Dr. Lancaster bellowed.

Blaine flinched.

And then flinched twenty more times as Kurt entered the room.

"Hello Dr. Lancaster, do you have my test? Oh, hi Blaine. I don't suppose it'll be too long a wait, Dr. Lancaster, I'm sure he did brilliantly."

To her credit, Dr. Lancaster's face said nothing. Instead, she calmly instructed Kurt to wait in the corridor while she finished giving Blaine his feedback.

"I would like you to retake this test next week. We will consider our options then."

"Thank you for the opportunity."

"No problem. But for god's sake Blaine, please _try _next time."

Blaine nodded and left, relieved that it was over and he could move on.

He was met outside by a giant Kurt beam. It was almost successful in cheering him up.

"Did you do well?"

Blaine shrugged. He just wanted to forget it.

"Damn, I so hoped I could beat you this time."

* * *

><p>Blaine decided to wait for Kurt outside the office. After five minutes he emerged, victoriously holding his paper aloft and jumping up and down and up and down and…<p>

"Oh, hi Blaine."

"Hi." Blaine could barely contain a laugh.

Kurt smiled too, only slightly embarrassed to have been caught mid-victory dance.

"I got an A+, I got an A+. And I came FIRST, so I got a higher A+ than even _you _did. Ah I'm so happy I could dance on a cloud of rainbows. Weee weeeee I have a newfound passion for scientific ethics weeeeeeee."

"I'm happy for you."

And then he gave Kurt a hug. Kurt clung to him, gripping him hard.

"I'm sorry if I'm rubbing it in. It's just, I kind of feel like I'm on the academic backbench here. I never used to get less than A-s at McKinley; here I'm often barely scraping Bs. Obviously, I prepared _way _more than you did for this exam, but I really admire you and your intelligence and there's no harm in aiming for the best, right?"

Blaine grimaced as he attempted to appear nonchalant.

"I'm not the best. I got a D-."

Kurt's jaw hit the floor.

"Whaawahw – how?"

Blaine thought about explaining how he'd thought the test would be a quiz on thermodynamics, how he was yet to read any of the material, how he hadn't tried his best in any shape or form. But that might make Kurt feel less validated by his own achievement, or, worse, cause him to judge him unfavourably. If Kurt hadn't picked up on how much of an idiot he was by now, this would certainly show him.

He looked down at his shoes and bit his lip, deciding to go for the most straightforward explanation that had occurred to him.

"I guess I just wasn't good enough."

That was true too, in everything.

Kurt reached out a hand, moving it cautiously up and down Blaine's bicep.

"Blaine, I can tell you're really upset about this, but it's only a stupid test. You can always redo it."

"I did the worst in the whole year, Kurt. The _worst_."

Kurt observed him in silence for several moments, before speaking once more.

"Guess what, Blaine? In a decade, a year, a month, maybe even a week, no. one. will. care. Just retake the dumb test, revising _properly _this time, and you'll pass it no problem. You can't be perfect all the time. And you can't expect things just to land in your lap, you have to _work at them_. Like music, you work at that. Talent can only get you so far."

He paused, searching Blaine's face for evidence of offense.

And then he said it.

"And just for the record, you _are _good enough."

Blaine just stood there, unable to do anything.

"I need to go home now. See you tomorrow, Blaine. Call me if you want a chat or anything."

He patted Blaine once more on the arm, sending shivers all over his body.

"Thanks Kurt. Bye."

Blaine watched him walk down the corridor. Kurt told him the truth. Kurt always told him the truth. And even though it kinda hurt, he _really_ didn't want him to go. Some things just needed to be said.


	25. And So It Goes

**Chapter 25 – And So It Goes**

_So I would choose to be with you  
>That's if the choice were mine to make<br>But you can make decisions too  
>And you can have this heart to break.<em>

– 'And So It Goes', Billy Joel

* * *

><p>The gates creaked open as Blaine's car slid up the driveway towards the house. There were no other cars in the driveway, and the house felt empty as ever as Blaine unlocked the front door and entered the vestibule. He still couldn't believe he'd fucked up so badly on that test: a D- wasn't going to get him to junior year, much less Yale. He just felt so unbelievably <em>stupid<em>. It wouldn't have even been so bad had _everyone _done badly, but it turned out that only three people had emerged with anything less than a B.

Only one person had gotten a D. Him. Blaine Anderson. What was happening to him?

Blaine kicked off his shoes and chucked his satchel against the wall, not really caring when the buckle scratched the skirting board. It'd all be repainted in a few weeks anyway; rotating colour schemes was the current Cremona craze. He then walked through the hallway and into the kitchen, buttering some bread and stuffing it into his mouth without tasting it at all. Crumbs scattered over the pristine marble countertop as he wolfed it down as fast as possible, his mind consumed with thoughts of failure rather than the taste of the food itself. He had to get to his room. He had to do something about that D-. He had to _study_.

The next few hours turned into a frenzy of highlighters, folders and notes, as Blaine attempted to get to grips with the content of six hours of lessons in a single evening. It was kind of sinking in and the material wasn't hard, it was just boring. Just one more book, and then one after that, and then another, and his eyes were drooping –

When Karen found him, he was hunched over his desk fast asleep.

"Blaine, Blaine." She rubbed his shoulder. "Blaine, wake up."

It took a few moments for his eyes to twitch open. They were red, as if he'd been crying, but that might just have been a trick of the light.

"Whaa?"

"You fell asleep." She gazed down at the paper in front of her son. "What's this? Who's Charles Nemeroff?"

"Dunno. A dude who wrote something in some journal or something." His speech was slurred.

Worry spread across Karen's face.

"God, you're exhausted." Then she looked puzzled. "Why are you revising anyway?"

He couldn't tell her.

"N-no reason. Just for fun"

Her eyes narrowed.

"Since when were you interested in…" She peered at the paper, "… 'The Self-Regulation of Scientific Research Bodies?'"

"Umm, it's really quite fascinating."

She sighed, obviously not believing a word of it. He was a terrible liar, and this was a ridiculous lie. Her arms crossed across her chest and she gave him a withering look.

"What happened?"

His hands twitched as he looked anywhere but her.

"Havetodoaresit."

It sounded more like a grunt.

"What? Blaine, you'll have to enunciate more clearly. I'm not fluent in teenage boy."

"I. HAVE. TO. DO. A. RESIT."

She still looked confused. Blaine wanted to punch something.

"What?"

"Mom, I got a D- on a test, okay?" He was almost yelling.

She just stared.

And then he whispered, "Please don't be mad."

She sat down in the armchair near his desk.

"I promise I won't be mad until I have heard you out. But you'd better explain pretty fast."

Blaine just twitched before rotating his swivel chair around so he could see her face.

"I… I… I have no explanation."

Oh god, the face of disappointment. But it was definitely mixed with suspicion.

"Okay. Well, we should probably get to the bottom of it then."

She stared at the carpet for a while.

"First thing's first, do you need me to get you a… a counsellor?"

The response was immediate as Blaine shook his head like a wet dog.

"No. It's not even anything to do with that. I guess I just didn't study enough, and I'm not good enough –"

"But you always try your best. What's going on?"

"Mom, this is quite high level stuff and I guess I'm just not that good at it."

She shook her head.

"You're capable of anything. I thought maybe once in a while you'd slip up and get a B or something, but a _D-_?"

She paused and her eyes narrowed.

"I think we'll continue this conversation over dinner."

* * *

><p>Blaine highlighted like his life depended on it for a few more hours until his mother hollered at him to come downstairs for dinner. The delicious smell became stronger and stronger as Blaine neared the kitchen, but there was no one in there once he got there.<p>

And so he went into the dining room.

Where his father and mother were sat. Mother and _father_.

It was a family meal. Shit.

"Blaine, thankfully your father is back tonight. We have some things we need to discuss. Or one thing."

Blaine didn't need to be told what that thing was. He couldn't really understand why they _cared_. They never usually pried into his academics. There again, he'd never really done badly before…

"So we need to talk about this D-"

He sighed.

"I don't even see why it's that big of a deal. I'm allowed to retake the test tomorrow and I'll ace it, I promise."

"Blaine, don't get the wrong idea. We're not angry, we're just _disappointed_. And worried about how tired you're getting."

"Yes," Michael continued, "Maybe you need to go a bit lighter on the extra-curriculars. I know they'll look good on college applications, but your grades always come first. For a course like Law, a thing like the Warblers isn't going to look as good as a perfect GPA. You have to make some compromises. There's no space for more socialising, yet you seem to be going out more and more."

Blaine just gaped. They were making all these assumptions about him and what he wanted to do and who he wanted to be, not to mention the way they were judging him on how he spent _his_ time.

He decided to settle on pointing out the obvious.

"This was _one _test."

"It's a slippery slope."

"I'm not dropping anything, social or otherwise."

His mother and father exchanged a glance, before Michael looked at him expressionlessly.

"Fine. As long as you know that we know that you can do _much _better."

Karen coughed.

"So, darling, how was Washington?"

And then they ate.

* * *

><p>As soon as he headed back up to his room, he texted Kurt. He'd know what to say to make it better.<p>

_Hey. Mom and Dad giving me grief over the D-, you'd have thought I'd blown up the entire Midwest with an atomic bomb I made in my bedroom or killed the birds that live on Bambi's nose or something. Hope you're having a better evening :) x_

And then he went back to work, a part of him always listening out for a text from Kurt.

And he highlighted and annotated and memorised and made flashcards.

But Kurt didn't respond.

* * *

><p>He still hadn't seen Kurt by the time the Warblers gathered at morning recess for a pre-Regionals meeting. Maybe he was ill. Blaine's chest twitched with the worry that he hadn't called or texted or <em>anything<em>.

Wes banged the gavel, shifting Blaine's concentration onto the immediate present.

"So, Regionals. Let's start with the obvious: dress code will be straight uniform, black dress shoes, neat hair…"

Blaine's head flickered with the memory of an idea Kurt had had. It was a good idea, and since Kurt wasn't there…

He raised his arm, half-automatically.

"I think we should wear red ties with blue piping for the competition."

"What?"

The Warblers were all staring at him like he'd sprouted a second head and ah, _this_ was how it felt to be Kurt.

And then there was an explosion of male voices that made the hairs on the back of Blaine's neck stand on end.

The gavel smashed against the block once, twice.

Then Blaine stood up without really thinking about it.

"Warblers, I am merely suggesting that instead of wearing blue ties with red piping, we wear jackets with red ties and blue piping for the competition."

Yes, it sounded a stupid insistence to make and yes, there were the expected clamours of it being a kangaroo court and a break with tradition and offensive to all Dalton students past and present. But then Blaine remembered that Kurt had said that there _was_ a difference, that even though the ties appeared to contain equal amounts of red and blue, the way they reflected the stage lights would be down to the weave of the fabric. Turning the colours around would make the red pop, apparently. And Kurt was always right about thi–

And then doors swung open and there he was.

Blaine felt all his internal organs shift and spark within his body, and even though his mind was screaming in horror at the non-conformity of Kurt's black ensemble, the rest of him was completely overwhelmed. He looked amazing.

And very, very downcast.

Blaine's mind instantly snapped back to attention.

"Kurt, what's wrong?"

His face sunk impossibly further. Blaine knew it must be something bad and closed himself down accordingly. He didn't even have to brace himself any more, it happened all by itself, an intense form of self-preservation.

Kurt's breath hitched before he finally spoke the words.

"It's Pavarotti. He's dead." A pause. "I suspect a stroke."

It was only a bird, but it _was _sad. Kurt had definitely bonded with the little creature, caring for him much better than any of the previous Warblers had. Especially Blaine. Blaine hadn't had any contact with the bird at all, not really.

And yet he still felt like he'd been mown down by a train.

He tried to swallow the dryness in his throat as Kurt started talking about Pink and doo-whopping and the optimism the little bird had been able to give him.

And then Kurt asked to sing a solo, cassette in hand and tears streaming down his face. Blaine's heart pumped as everything in his mind told him to stop thinking while everything in his heart was surging up in admiration of Kurt for having the courage to wear his heart on his sleeve. For having the courage to walk around the school wearing a mourning outfit. For having the courage to _be Kurt Hummel _day in, day out. He was still as far as the moon and back from being Blaine, that was for sure.

And then Kurt started to sing.

_Take these broken wings and learn to fly._

_All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise,_

…

The vocalising the Warblers were doing was slowly clearing his head. Bit by bit, he realised that as heartless as it sounded, he probably _wasn't _all that torn up over the death of Pavarotti.

No, it was far simpler and far more complicated all at the same time.

He was torn up because Kurt was torn up.

And then he couldn't sing any more.

_All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to be free._

Because when all your emotions are hinged on someone else's wellbeing, that isn't a crush. It isn't a crush when their non-response to a single text message you sent makes you unable to sleep for a whole night, it isn't a crush when a character assessment a person makes of you reverberates around in your head for a few hours, if not a few days. It isn't a crush when a single sentence they say can lift you up and make you feel like maybe things will heal up and get better for you. It isn't a crush when their criticisms make you want to strip yourself bare and rebuild yourself from the ground up just to make them happy.

And he stared at Kurt. Stared more than he ever had before, more than when he was looking for answers in the blue of his eyes and more than the times when he'd gripped onto Kurt like a liferaft in a frozen sea.

_I love you._

_I love you I love you I love you_.

And just as his brain was beginning to panic about having yet another thing to hide from his friend, a wave of relief surged through him. This was the truth, he knew it now.

He loved Kurt.

He started to feel as if he wanted to tell him, he really did. He'd rip off every guard he had, tell him anything and everything and then kiss him for hours and hours and days and weeks. Kurt would understand, Kurt wouldn't send him away to get treated or whatever it was everyone said he should do. Kurt would _know_ that these things don't just go away after a little chat, they just _are_. They're _there_, no matter how much you try to escape them with your 'happy places' and 'positive thinking'. You can cover them up with masks as tough as concrete or bury them deep within your heart, but you can never really make them go away. Not now, not ever.

His breath was starting to quicken and he knew had to get out of the room before he said anything he might regret. He had to go somewhere where he'd be able to think it through. Somewhere no one else would be.

He rushed out as soon as the song was up, patting Kurt's arm as he left and promising himself it would be the last time he'd ever run away. Stepping out into the corridor, he had no idea where he was going. His feet just seemed to carry him towards the back door, and then down the path across the gardens, and finally to the leisure centre. He hid in the changing room, just thinking it all through and making _sure_ he was sure; it wouldn't be fair to lead Kurt on, especially when he was clearly having a tough time, and Blaine really didn't want to screw up the second true friendship he'd ever had.

He curled up on the bench that spanned the length of the wall, clutching his knees to his face as he slowly rocked to and fro, to and fro. When he was finally calm, he thought everything through.

It took him less than a second to realise that he desperately wanted to be Kurt's boyfriend. Hold him, kiss him, tell him.

But the legal brain he'd inherited could think of the cons, too. He'd have to tell Kurt _everything_, because secrets are not compatible with long-term relationships. He'd have to tell his parents about Kurt for that same reason, and his grandfather would probably hear it through the grapevine and it would be impossible to guess what he'd do. He'd have someone who he'd have to be totally honest with, and he'd have to let Kurt know the person he really was rather than the prissily perfect projection he'd been hiding behind all this time.

When it came down to it, he'd have to risk the most precious friendship he had on the only thing he wanted more, because he wanted to be Kurt's more than anything else in the world.

He took a breath.

Yes, he'd tell him. After Warblers, maybe, or after school.

He just hoped more than anything that Kurt would want him in return.

And then he looked down at his watch, _that_ watch, just because Kurt had given it to him and it was like having a piece of him right there and HOLY SHIT WAS THAT THE TIME AND OH GOD HE WAS MEANT TO BE DOING HIS SCIENTIFIC ETHICS RESIT RIGHT AROUND… tic tic tic … NOW.

He raced towards the science building, hoping against all hope that Dr. Lancaster would be late starting the test. His mind was all over the place and his heart was beating in the most ridiculous pattern and his hair was everywhere, but when he opened the classroom door he realised he was the first of the three resitters to arrive. Relief.

"Ah Blaine, hello. Right on time."

He looked vaguely over at his teacher and saw her smiling. Then he spluttered. Images of the cute way Kurt coughed floated through his head.

"Well, sit down. The tests have all been laid out."

He cast his eyes across the room, seeing that Dr. Lancaster had arranged the papers as far apart from one another as was physically possible. He chose the seat at the front.

"Now we have to wait for the other two." She checked her list. "Have you seen Charles Booth or Oscar Atkinson-Clyde today, Blaine?"

He thought for a moment. He definitely hadn't seen Oscar, and it took him a few seconds to realise that Charles was that guy who always insisted on being called Shroom. Blaine simply shook his head because he hadn't seen either of them, before drifting into space as he envisioned things he'd say to Kurt and various romantic outpourings of emotion and Kurt hugging him and accepting him and –

There was an almighty crash.

"We're here."

Two boys in Dalton blazers tumbled into the room. One was tall with spiky blonde hair and blue eyes that weren't as nice as Kurt's: that was Oscar. The other, Charles or Shroom or whatever, was slightly shorter and had dyed his hair a deep, unflattering black. Blaine noticed that he had a small piece of clear plastic hanging from below his lip where he was trying (and failing) to conceal a lip piercing, though Dr. Lancaster seemed none the wiser as she hurried them to their seats.

"Right boys, you have an hour. Go."

Blaine turned over the paper and sighed with relief when he discovered that it was exactly the same question as before. But his mind kept going blank as he thought about… (Kurt.)…. Ethics… (Kurt's eyes.)… (Kurt)… (KurtKurtKurtKurtKurt)… ethics. Yeah, ethics.

And he was finally in the zone.

Ethicsethicsethics | quote | ethi –

"Miss."

Blaine jolted up irritably, whipped out of his cave of concentration. It was the smarmy voice of Oscar Atkinson-Clyde.

"I'm merely checking we're in the right room, Miss. Are we in the right room? Only, I just noticed that Anderson's here."

There was tittering as Dr. Lancaster replied with a curt, "Yes, he is and yes, you are. Now back to work."

Silence. (Kurt.) Silence. Ethics.

Somehow Blaine managed to cover about ten sides in forty minutes.

(Kurt.) (Kurt.) Ethics. (Kurt's hair.) Ethics. Conclusion. (Kurt.) Conclusion. _Though the case of Nemeroff could add weight to Nutt's notion that society is largely at the mercy of… _(Kurt)… _it would be fair to conclude that there is indeed a role for specialist self-regulation that exists alongside the wider remit of external regulatory bodies_.

DONE.

(Kurt.)

"Finished, Blaine?"

He nodded. She got up out of her chair and plucked his essay off the desk before returning to her seat.

"I'll mark it now, since there are still ten minutes and forty six seconds left of exam time."

Blaine glanced up at the clock, realising that the Warbler rehearsal would be starting in exactly five minutes. He jittered around hoping she'd hurry up with her marking.

As she read, she made these satisfied little sounds. Mmms and aaaahs and ooohs and whispered yeses and –

"Miss, can you not orgasm over Anderson's essay? I'm _trying_ to think. Also, he doesn't like vagina."

Shroom.

"I appreciate that lucid thought may be a challenge to you Charles, but you really should try harder," she shot back calmly. "It'll be good preparation for your meeting with the Principal after school today, where you will be discussing what is and is not appropriate to comment on within the classroom setting."

Blaine tried to stop a smile from creeping over his face. Today was a good day. And Shroom and Oscar were dicks.

Three minutes later and the essay had been tossed back onto his desk.

He frantically flicked to the end.

_A+. See what you can achieve when you try. A wholly thoughtful and provocative response delivered with eloquence and precision. Well done, Blaine._

But there was more: she'd continued a few lines down the page.

_Not quite as good as the guy you mention, though. Maybe you should read his work, especially as he seems so… quotable_.

Blaine was confused as he slowly sifted back through the work, starting at the beginning. Fine, fine, fine, the first three pages were all covered in ticks.

But on the fourth there was a circle.

And in that circle was the word, 'Kurt'.

He counted the circles. There were five.

Shit.

Dr. Lancaster winked at him as he practically melted into the desk in utter humiliation.

"Off you go, Blaine," she said.

Blaine darted out of the room, willing the memory away as he hurried towards the Warblers' rehearsal room.

* * *

><p>A quick trip to the bathroom to wash his face and (somewhat) improve his hair calmed him down enough to face the Warblers. Sure enough, his heart was steady and his mind was clear as he walked down the steps, flicking the doors open with as much decorum as his half-dizzy lovesick self could muster.<p>

Everyone turned towards him and stared. Oh god, what was wrong? Was there something up with his hair? Had he accidentally tattooed 'Kurt' across his forehead?

"Why are you late?" Wes was using his evil voice, eyes narrowed and voice arrestingly level.

Ah, the punctuality thing.

"I just did my resit."

Everyone in the room tittered until Wes thwacked the gavel once more. Their gaze followed Blaine as he moved over to the chair in the centre of the room that was always reserved just for him.

"Blaine, that is the stupidest excuse I've ever heard."

"No," Kurt chimed. Oh god his voice. "He actually did have a resit. I would have said something but I didn't really want to go spreading Blaine's business around because, well, it's _his _and –"

Wes thumped the gavel once more, cutting a now disgruntled Kurt off mid-flow. When he thought about it, Blaine realised that the only people Wes would ever really listen to were him, David and Thad. It wasn't really fair at all.

Wes did rather like the sound of his own voice, didn't he?

"Reason is accepted under Article 5 Section 8, 'Lateness to Meetings: Academic Assessment." BANG BANG BANG.

Case in point.

David's pen worked at superspeed as it recorded both Blaine's lateness and Wes's acceptance of it in the official minutes. Blaine pitied any future Warbler who strayed across that book: it must be the most turgid thing in existence.

"Now," said Wes, "It's time for the final decision vis-à-vis our setlist for Regionals. As of our last meeting, this morning, we had settled on Misery and Raise Your Glass, with Warbler Blaine taking both of the solos."

All the Warblers murmured amongst themselves, until Thad spoke up.

"I don't think Misery is an appropriate song for a _glee _club competition. I just don't." The point was a good one, and it sparked more murmurs. More debates. More bullshit.

Thad continued, "How about we just do 'I'm Yours' and be done with it. I think Blaine's version of the song is actually better than the original."

"But it's not in his natural key –"

"How _dare_ you?"

"What?"

Blaine stopped it all before it got out of hand.

"Enough. I'm tired of this."

Everyone was silent.

David's pen sped across the paper as he recorded verbatim everything that came out of Blaine's mouth. The formalities were stupid and false, and it was irritating him. And then there was Thad, _Thad_, telling him he could just pick whichever song he wanted. Duh, that kind of happened already and everyone in the room knew it. All this official stuff was driving him insane: it was like there was a wall between the reality of the official minutes and the climate of the room itself, a divide between the voiced and the unspoken, tradition and progress, a gulf that was becoming wider and wider by the second. Blaine kept talking.

" – And that's why I propose that we rearrange our 11 o'clock number and turn it into a duet. To showcase other talent in this group."

There was an uproar.

And then he stood up.

"Point of order."

There was an audible gasp as he challenged the esteemed council, followed by a ripple of shock when they didn't order him to sit back down again. And then Blaine's brain carried off without him, babbling on about how people (Kurt) shouldn't be silenced like a dead canary, how they (he) should have their (his) voice heard, how he didn't want everything to be about him any more.

It was bullshit and quite clearly so, but the guys must have given him the benefit of the doubt because when Wes called a vote, everyone was in favour. God, those guys trusted him enough to put up two boys as leads in the biggest show choir competition in the Midwest. Blaine felt he owed them more than ever.

Now there was the issue of the duet partner. It would be easy to convince them, wouldn't it? It _needed_ to be Kurt.

"No auditions, I wanna sing the duet with Kurt."

No one objected, and it was decided: two boys, and one new song.

Blaine fell back into his chair like a lovesick schoolgirl, waiting for the rehearsal to end so he could go to his last lesson of the day and then start practising different songs with Kurt. Kurt. KurtKurtKurtKurt. Alone time with Kurt, that was what this was really about, wasn't it? Just being near him would let Blaine work up the nerve to finally ask whether he'd truly missed his chance, though it'd probably take a couple of days yet; he was a coward, after all. But this feeling, it was frightening and intoxicating all at once, distracting and intrusive and hopeful and completely and utterly stupefying.

He needed to know once and for all whether Kurt could ever be his.

He just didn't know how to go about it. At all.

* * *

><p>Blaine's phone vibrated in his pocket halfway through his Politics class and he whipped it out as soon as Mr Corrigan's back was turned. He couldn't ignore his phone any more, especially not now. Not when it might be <em>him<em>.

He pressed the central button on his BlackBerry, and his heart raced when he saw that it was indeed who he'd hoped it'd be: 'Kurt H.' shone up at him from the screen. He instantly recalled Kurt's timetable, remembering he had study hall.

_Staying late after school. Don't wait for me. In the dining room if you need me. K xx_

Blaine's fingers traced over the screen once, twice, before he hurriedly locked the phone and shoved it back into his pocket. Mr Corrigan was old and somewhat gaunt after two heart attacks, but he was smart as a whip and always well-dressed in an immaculately-tailored (Horton's) suit. Things rarely escaped the notice of his piercing blue eyes, especially when there was a senator's son in the room.

But Blaine was lucky this time.

And by the time the bell tolled, he'd managed to gain enough mental lucidity to think of a song they could sing. Candles, by Hey Monday. Kurt's voice would sound pretty and there would be great but complicated harmonies he could set up for the guys and yeah… complicated harmonies would mean a lot of practice, which couldn't be a bad thing.

He just needed to get close to Kurt, summon up that courage to just _ask _him. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day. The sooner the better.

And, as if propelled by magic or a jet pack, he floated out of the classroom and down the corridor like a lovesick schoolgirl.

* * *

><p>The gravity of the situation didn't really hit him until he was at that doorframe. He could see Kurt hunched over a little wooden box, painstakingly covering it with beads and jewels and a material that looked suspiciously like mother of pearl. Blaine suddenly felt more nervous than he'd ever felt in his whole life.<p>

"What's that?"

"I'm decorating Pavarotti's casket."

Okay, morbid. But Blaine was determined, even though he had absolutely no idea how to go about this.

"Well, finish up. I have the perfect song for our number and we should practice."

Before long, he was sitting in the seat next to Kurt's. He was so close he could touch him, so close he could feel his breath. He wanted to get closer and run home all at once. He was sure that Kurt was able to hear his heart, thudding loudly in his chest. It was thrilling and terrifying all at the same time. Kurt kind of did that to him.

"Why did you pick me to sing that song with?"

And Kurt was asking. _Asking_.

If he didn't do it now, he'd put it off forever. He had to know whether Kurt liked him back. Accepting this, Blaine finally looked him in the eyes, if only for a few seconds. They were sparking blue, with a hint of confusion furrowing the skin around the edges.

And he couldn't run if he tried.

And then he took a breath.

And said it.

"Kurt, there is a moment when you say to yourself, 'Oh, there you are, I've been looking for you forever.'"

And it was true. He had. For forever and for even longer than that.

He gripped on to Kurt's hand, clasping his cold fingers between his own so that Kurt could know what he meant, feel how he felt, want what he wanted.

He breathed and continued.

"Watching you do Blackbird this week, that was the moment for me, about you. Y-You move me, Kurt…" He needed to get the rest out before his voice cracked and he clammed up in a quivering wreck of embarrassment. It was happening, he could feel it. He was _telling _him something. "…and this duet would just be an excuse to spend more time with you."

And then, through hazy vision, he looked all over Kurt's face for signs that he might not want this, that it was all made up in his head and he might not want him after all. But his blue eyes were widening, his throat moving as his breath hitched, his lips parting. _Lips_.

And then slowly, slowly, for himself as much as for Kurt, Blaine closed the space between them. His lips were finally on Kurt's, his hand on his thigh, and he went for it. And he could feel that Kurt was kissing him back a bit but not that much and maybe he'd made it all up and Kurt didn't want this but he had been pretty sure –

And then Kurt's hand was on his cheek and his lips were moving against his and Blaine couldn't really think any more.

And then they parted and it kind of hurt to move back to the chair that was so _far _away. He found himself smiling anyway, because Kurt had _kissed him back_. Which meant he _liked him back_. A thrill ran through Blaine's body as he sat back down, a small, involuntary smile casting itself over his features.

Kurt looked how Blaine felt: like it was unreal.

He laughed because he'd just kissed his best friend in school over a wooden coffin and that was absurd. And because of the relief that he hadn't freaked out at all. But mostly because they'd kissed.

There was a beat of silence before Blaine could speak again.

"Uh, we should – we should practice."

And then Kurt matched his smile.

"I thought we were."

And that voice was the hottest thing Blaine had ever heard in his life and they rose up to meet each other and his lips were back where they belonged and arms were flying everywhere and lips were on lips and tongues came into it but he'd learnt his lesson from before and it felt really good and then they were parted again, panting, separate.

"Umm, wow." Blaine breathed, beating himself up at the same time for his habit of saying the most stupid thing at the most stupid time and… yeah.

"Yeah," sighed Kurt. "Yeah."

"So…" Blaine began somewhat awkwardly. Kurt just looked at him expectantly. "I guess this is rather backwards, considering, well…" he giggled, and Kurt grinned. He took a breath.

"Boyfriends?"

Kurt didn't really do anything except grin wider. But then he nodded. And Blaine's heart sang.

"Boyfriends."

Their hands reached out and found each other, fingers lacing in a way that was familiar and new all at the same time. There was a silence as Kurt just looked at him, his eyes tracing over his hair, his eyes, his cheeks, his chin. His lips.

"I've wanted this for the longest time, you know," Blaine found himself whispering into the quiet, staring deep into Kurt's eyes. "I just didn't know… I just didn't know what to say or whether you even liked me–"

"Blaine, have you _seen _yourself? And have you seen _me_, I'm not exactly subtle."

He twisted his arms awkwardly at the compliment, before looking down and whispering back to Kurt, "You're the most beautiful person I've ever seen in my life."

He felt himself blush deeply, and silence returned as fingers moved over fingers and hands clasped and unclasped and clasped again.

Kurt spoke into the silence.

"Why didn't you say before?"

Blaine just kissed him again. And again.

"Because I was scared."

Kurt kissed him again.

"Why? You knew I liked you." He was talking against Blaine's lips, and it was just about the best thing he'd experienced ever.

But Blaine moved away and sat back. Sat far from Kurt's lips, far from his eyes and nose and warmth. All that connected them was their fingers. Because it was serious now.

And then he stared at Kurt and took a breath because now it was time and he had to say something about his weird, weird behaviour and –

But nothing came out.

Nothing.

And Kurt just looked straight at him, patient and waiting.

And that, in a funny way, seemed to help.

Blaine finally looked down at the table and said, "I tend to screw things up."

There was a pause as Kurt just looked at him levelly for a while. Then he spoke up, his voice calm and even.

"You helped me. You made me feel better."

Blaine just shook his head. He heard Kurt begin to continue.

"You did. You helped more than you can possibly know."

Blaine looked up at Kurt, his gaze wavering between his hairline and his eyebrows.

And then he went for it.

"Kurt…" He finally looked into Kurt's eyes. They were calm and impartial, waiting for whatever Blaine was going to say. "Kurt, I have to tell you–"

Kurt's gaze didn't change. Blaine breathed, and then said it all at once.

"Something really bad happened to me. Freshman year."

Kurt's grip just tightened slightly around his hands and he gulped. Oh god, why did he always make people so uncomfortable? What was wrong with him? This was supposed to be a romantic moment and he'd spoiled it and –

"I know," Kurt breathed, his fingers slowly massaging Blaine's. "I know."

"What?"

Kurt just smiled sadly and looked at him with a steady expression. "Blaine, I lost my mom when I was eight. That kinda makes a person able to identify other 'damaged goods'."

Blaine's mouth hung open and Kurt let the silence linger a while before he broke it.

"Look," he said, a bit more assertive now, "I don't know what happened to you but I know you think about it pretty much all the time, don't you? You just kind of zone out and replay it all out in your head. I see you doing it."

Blaine remained still.

"And you have this stupid… well, not stupid, _misinformed_ idea that you're to blame, just because you think that everything bad that happens is somehow down to you. It isn't, okay, it just isn't."

Blaine felt tears in his eyes.

"And," Kurt continued, quieter again, "I don't want you to say anything else about it unless you're absolutely sure you're telling me because _you _want to, not because you think it's a disclaimer or some kind of exit pass for me to get out before we… you know… get closer or whatever. If it comes up again and you decide to tell me, I'll be completely there for you and I'm not going to look at you any differently or pity you or anything like that. You're Blaine and I accept every part of you."

A single tear rolled down Blaine's cheek.

"How did I get so lucky?"

Kurt just smiled a bit.

"I could ask you the exact same thing."

And then lips were on lips, tongues met tongues, hands covered hands between two thumping hearts.

And eventually, eventually Kurt broke them apart, breathless and smiling.

"The school will be closing in an hour. We should probably actually practice this damn song."

Blaine looked at him a little sheepishly.

"I haven't arranged it yet. Well, I mean, a bit in my head bu –"

Kurt barked out a laugh.

"So it was all a ruse to get me to kiss you? Blaine Anderson, I'm shocked and appalled."

Blaine twitched awkwardly. "Well, not exactly –"

"It's okay, Blaine, I _really _don't mind. In case you haven't noticed already."

And he pecked him on the lips once more to prove it.

"Play me what's in your head."

Blaine nodded. "Okay."

Kurt followed Blaine as he moved over to the upright piano wedged at the side of the room. Both boys sat on the stool, and Blaine flexed his fingers before settling them on the first chord.

"It isn't going to be perfect."

"No one's perfect, Blaine." It was little more than a whisper, but Blaine heard it all the same.

And then he began, his hands moving smoothly over the keys as he played the introduction the Warblers would be singing.

Then he paused.

"Now you sing. You start the whole thing."

Blaine demonstrated it in his falsetto, going over it twice so Kurt could hear it properly. He got it right first time. And so they worked their way through the whole song, tweaking the harmonies and putting in a high E for Kurt and careful little ornamentations for Blaine.

And then they sang it through, just to make sure they remembered it all. Kurt wrapped his arms around Blaine's neck as they approached the final chord, pressing his lips against Blaine's temple before moving to whisper in his ear.

"You have the most beautiful mind. You know that, right?"

And even compared to everything that had been said and done that evening, that was the thing that felt most intimate of all to Blaine. Even in this tiniest of ways, he had let Kurt in, he'd let Kurt _see_. And that song summed more than just what was happening between them, it represented what they'd left behind as well, what they'd lost.

"I think we're done for today," Kurt breathed. "We wouldn't want Hardwicke finding us now would we?"

Blaine shook his head rapidly and stood up.

"C'mon, we'll walk to our cars together," he suggested.

And they exited the building hand in hand, reaching the parking lot all too soon.

Kurt fidgeted and looked at the ground when the time came to separate. "I don't want to say goodbye to you."

He continued to speak, shuffling the soles of his shoes over the gravel.

"It doesn't even feel that different, does it? I mean, there's kissing which isn't unwelcome at all but apart from that… we're still just _us_. I _never_wanted you to go home when we were just friends, and I especially don't want you to go now."

Blaine nodded as he realised the most obvious thing in the world.

"Why would it be any different? You're still my best friend, you just happen to be my boyfriend now as well. Which means I get to do this."

He kissed him lightly on the mouth.

Kurt smiled against Blaine's lips. "I just never really – I'd just given up hope, you know."

"I'm sorry."

Kurt swatted the back of Blaine's neck. "Shut up you idiot, it's as much my fault as it is yours."

And he gave him a final hug.

"Bye Blaine."

"See you tomorrow, Kurt. I'll ring you tonight and run up a horrendous phone bill. It'll be great."

Kurt grinned. "Okay. Bye."

"Bye."

"You go first."

"No, you."

There was a pause as they both laughed.

"I will, but only because I don't want to spend the night arguing with you in a parking lot. Bye, Blaine."

Blaine grinned as Kurt climbed into his Navigator and began to drive across the gravel towards the road.

And as he waved him off, Blaine's stomach flipped in a thousand different directions.

He was Kurt's. And Kurt's was his.

And he still couldn't quite believe it.

He couldn't believe it at all.

* * *

><p><strong>AN Epically long chapter but it's _happened_! I hope it was okay. I can finally change the DVD in my laptop now (OS is the last episode on this disc – yes I'm a loser). YAYAYAYAYAY. Epigraph-wise, nope, it's not elephant-related, but _And So It Goes _is one of my very favourite songs and I think it sums up what Blaine is doing here (and kind of throughout the story too). Look at the lyrics if you're unfamiliar, it's a beautiful _beautiful _song (there are great a cappella versions on YouTube - best is probably the one by MusikTenor). Let me know what you thought, as this was obviously quite an important chapter. The story will now be taking a slightly different route: time will be gradually speeding up and we will go hurtling through the Klaine universe, onwards onwards onwards love love love. Fun times for all :) Hope you liked this one! And Glee is back tomorrow! Looks unbelievably fantastic :) **

**PS Sorry you all got two emails; FF decided to mess up when I updated it the first time (I never take the chapter down once it's posted). Many thanks to anderpson for making me aware of the problem.  
><strong>


	26. Burying the Elephant

**Chapter 26: Burying the Elephant  
><strong>

_When an elephant dies, its family members engage in intense mourning and burial rituals, conducting weeklong vigils over the body, carefully covering it with earth and brush, revisiting the bones for years afterward, caressing the bones with their trunks, often taking turns rubbing their trunks along the teeth of a skull's lower jaw, the way living elephants do in greeting._

- 'An Elephant Crack-Up?' by Charles Siebert, NY Times (October 8th 2006)

* * *

><p>Blaine had thought seeing Kurt the next day might be awkward, even after their marathon two hour phone call. He expected tentative gazes across the choir room at the very least, if not a full-on discussion of kissing protocol and a lecture about his dangerously dry t-zone. What came instead was a brush of lips in the parking lot and a hand gliding its way up and down his wrist, ghosting over the blue polyester of the Dalton blazer before it drifted back to its position by Kurt's side as they walked beyond the cover provided by Blaine's car.<p>

Knowing looks bounced around the hall as they walked towards homeroom. They weren't even touching but somehow their arms were still gravitating together, feet falling into step as they walked up the staircase where it had all begun. They saw David at the pigeonholes, frantically shoving Warbler-embossed envelopes into the appropriate slots, no doubt trying to beat the morning rush that came every day before the school day began.

"Hey Blaine, hi Kurt," he said to the pigeonholes. "Blaine, you can pick up your letter, they were alphabetised in my satchel so yours was the first one I delivered. They're about Regionals, some new school policy where we need parental permission to have a student drive the miniva –"

He'd turned to look at them and his eyes had practically popped out of his head.

Surprise was quickly replaced by the most self-satisfied smirk Blaine had ever seen.

"You two are _totally_ together."

Their expressions must have confirmed it all because David was soon reaching over to pat Blaine on the shoulder.

"Well done my man, my money was on it taking you another month at least, even after the duet situation…"

Blaine reddened as David drifted off, twisting his foot into patterns across the wooden floorboards.

"Um, yeah, it kind of… is… that we… _are_."

Somewhat desperately he turned to Kurt and saw him grinning widely. He found himself matching him tooth for tooth.

In a moment of resolute decision, David stuffed all the remaining letters in the hole marked _Montgomery, Wesley A. K._ and picked up his bag. "Screw these letters, you boys are going to tell me _all _the gossip," he announced as he moved towards them, grabbing Kurt's arm in one arm and Blaine's in the other as he marched them down the corridor. "And maybe this means Blaine won't die a virgin. Hoo hooray."

"Oh my god David, _inappropriate_. No." Blaine stuttered out, sensing that both he and Kurt had turned _LetTheGroundEatMe _red. "Just. No."

* * *

><p>The days passed as the early days do: quickly. They kissed when no one was around and stared unblinkingly at each other when they were. They held hands across the centre consoles of their cars, and duet practice in Kurt's bedroom often turned into duets of another kind. The night before Regionals was spent cuddled together on the sofa as Kurt stuffed popcorn into his face, stopping only to warn Blaine that "if it <em>ever <em>gets out that I have this guilty secret, it will be on your head and your head only".

And then Burt had walked in. Luckily, they were on opposite ends of the couch, with Kurt dipping into the snacks while Blaine snuggled into the nook between the padded back and armrest.

"You're boyfriends."

Blaine braced himself but Kurt just looked at his father and said, "Yes, we are."

And Burt's face hadn't moved. "I'm not surprised."

His eyes flicked back and forth, from hazel to blue to hazel again as he took a deep breath.

He pointed a finger at Blaine. "You don't upset him, hear me?"

Blaine shook his head, frightened out of his mind. Kurt reached across, settling his hand on Blaine's knee. Burt's face twitched in what appeared to be a thinly-disguised smile.

"And you." The finger moved to Kurt. "Don't upset him either."

Kurt nodded.

"Okay, that is all I have to say."

He left the room.

"And," he called back, "No sleepovers for at least thirty years."

He wandered over to the fridge chuckling to himself, leaving a pale Kurt and beet Blaine in his wake.

"Why does everyone seem to think we're so desperate to bone each other?" Blaine whispered.

"_Blaine_. Oh my god." They were now a matching shade of violent red.

"I don't want to do it I promise well not until we're more settled and you want to and we've discussed it and I won't pressure you and –"

"Shut _up _Blaine."

Kurt looked embarrassed. Blaine looked mortified.

But then a smirk began to creep over Kurt's face, slowly but surely diffusing like a dye in a liquid.

He lowered his voice, imitating Blaine's. "Now give me… _sultry_."

Blaine groaned. "I'm never going to live that down, am I?"

"Nope," said Kurt, stuffing a superhuman quantity of Doritos into his mouth. "Never."

Blaine smirked.

"Whatever you say, my darling baby penguin."

Their raucous laughter quickly shattered any lingering tension in the room. They curled up together in front of Snookie and The Situation until the sad time came that Blaine had to return to his empty house.

* * *

><p>"Sooo…" Kurt began as they piled into the minivan that would be taking them to Regionals, "Have you told your parents yet?"<p>

"Told them what?"

"That we're together, duh."

"Oh… umm… no. No, not yet. I mean, they've been really busy."

Kurt raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah."

"It's fine, Blaine."

Kurt completely wasn't buying it.

"Okay, my grandfather's an asshole with a lot of influence. And my dad, well, I never know quite how he's taking it. So, you know, I thought I'd keep it quiet a while."

Kurt smiled softly in the way he always did when Blaine told him something about himself.

"That sucks."

"Yeah, it does."

"I take it we won't be blessed with the presence of any Anderson family members today, then. My dad will just have to yell for the both of us. I'm sure it won't be a problem: he is _still _unable to distinguish a choir competition from a football game, even after all this time."

Blaine couldn't help the smile that passed over his face, but Kurt leapt onto the next conversation topic before he could bark out the laugh that had crept up his throat.

"Anyway, I finally read that Stoppard play. _Arcadia_, I haven't gotten onto _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead _yet because I kinda feel I should read _Hamlet _first. Penny for your thoughts anyway? Will you finally share them now my reading won't get 'contaminated' by your opinions."

Blaine smiled.

"I don't dislike Stoppard's work, it's just that I always find him a little gratuitous. Very gratuitous. Like, it seems he's kind of nudging the audience, sidestepping the story to say, _oh aren't I jolly smart_, _I bet __you__ wouldn't have thought to turn your play into a lesson on Einsteinian physics. Aren't I marvellous? You ought to write literary criticism about me immediately_. It kind of annoys me. But I won't ever have a play nominated for a Tony so I guess I can't really mock him too much."

"I disagree about the gratuitous thing…" Kurt began, and the debate lasted right until they drew up at the theatre. Love. Death. Certainty. Doubt. Past in the present. Present in the past.

"God, you're smart," Blaine whispered, his brain whirring happily as he snuggled up against the bus window.

"Mmmph," humphed Kurt. "Tell that to Dr. Greene and her B+ obsession."

"Screw her. You ready?"

Fearful recognition suddenly spread across Kurt's face as he was knocked out of his KurtandBlaine cocoon and forced to face the real world. They were at Regionals. Against the New Directions. And he was one half of a _duet_. It would be a make or break moment in his budding stage career, and it'd snuck up on him right out of the blue.

* * *

><p>To his great shock and immense surprise, Kurt didn't forget the words or the arrangement. And Blaine was perfect in 'Raise Your Glass'. Blaine always seemed to be perfect. Sure, that was what boyfriends were <em>supposed <em>to think about their significant others, but yeah. Blaine. Wow.

They lost anyway.

Kurt had somewhat expected it, in his head but not in his heart. Blaine had just shrugged and accepted the second place trophy with his usual grace and charm, his eyes smiling as he offered his congratulations to Mercedes and Rachel and Schue.

Backstage he watched as Blaine wandered around, patting everyone on the back and dodging all the inappropriate comments that were being flung from all corners of the dressing area. No one, not even Wes or David, seemed particularly upset. Or surprised. So Kurt just plastered the biggest grin he could manage across his face, and Blaine happily took his arm and announced that he and Kurt were going over to the refreshments area.

"Are you disappointed?" Blaine asked.

"Who me? Noooo. I mean, we did well to come second with a judging panel like that. And all my friends did so well –"

"It's okay to feel upset, Kurt."

"I'm not ups –"

Blaine had frozen, but not before he'd roughly dragged his arm out of Kurt's. His eyes widened as he stared across the room, fixated on a tall, greying man in an ill-fitting suit.

A beat of silence.

"Blaine?"

* * *

><p>Blaine couldn't believe it. This couldn't be happening, not here, not now, not in front of Kurt. He wanted to run but his legs wouldn't move. His body thumped with the flow of blood, throbbing and pulsing as if it was about to combust.<p>

The man approached.

"Blaine! It is you! You did such a great job! And you've grown!"

Blaine gazed at the floor for a long ten seconds, trying to consolidate the joyful tone of the man's voice with the broken quality that he remembered. He was finally able to meet his eyes.

"Hello Mr. Blake."

The formality seemed to injure the man.

"Alban is still fine, Blaine."

Then there was an awkward silence. The man urged Blaine on with an imploring look.

"Look… ummm… I'm really sorry. Really sorry. I know you and Blanche said to keep in touch but it was just really hard and just thinking about it made it even worse and then things just got-"

"Ssssh ssssh it's okay."

Blaine looked up at him, desperate for him to restart the conversation.

"So who is your friend?"

Oh god. Oh god oh god. Oh god oh god oh god he wasn't ready. Alban caught the panic.

"This is Kurt."

Kurt half-smiled.

"He's my uhh… he's my boyfriend."

A smile lit up Alban's face, partly reassuring but mostly in genuine happiness.

"I'm so happy for you, Blaine."

And then a tall boy in a Westvale High hoodie approached and whacked Alban on the back. He had piercing green eyes and a mop of blonde hair that covered one of his eyes. Puberty had been and gone, leaving him with almost the same features as the ones that had been battered out of all recognition on the worst night of Blaine's life. Blaine's throat constricted as he struggled to produce any kind of greeting.

"Hi Robin," he eventually managed. "You're so tall."

He cringed.

The boy was just gaping. Standing and gaping. He shook his head a few times before he finally began to speak.

"Oh my god it _was _you. I thought I was just seeing things."

His voice. Oh no. His voice. It had dropped, and was now only slightly deeper than Blaine remembered Orrin's to have been. Oh god.

Blaine tried to pull himself together in the best way he knew. He pulled Kurt, who had awkwardly drifted as far from the conversation as etiquette would allow, closer into his side.

"Umm, Robin, this is Kurt. He's my boyfriend."

"Nice," said Robin, extending a hand to Kurt. "I'm Robin. I'm in Aural Intensity. And I'm Blaine's friend."

Blaine's face lost some of the tension it had been holding before. Kurt looked slightly confused.

"How about I buy you and Kurt a coffee, Blaine? I would get one for Robin, too, but it makes him bounce off walls. You'll have to come over to the till, though, just to show me how you two take your coffee."

Both boys recognised the ploy immediately. Kurt deftly engaged Robin in a bitchy conversation about Sue Sylvester to allow the other two men to escape, and soon they were alone.

* * *

><p>As soon as they were out of earshot, Alban began to speak incredibly rapidly. Blaine blinked but made sure he was hanging onto every word.<p>

"Okay Blaine, I now realise that this is a tricky situation. You haven't said anything about what happened at Westerville East, have you?"

Blaine shook his head.

"No. I'm going to, just not now. It's not that I don't trust him, it's just… I guess I had to make sure I'd gotten my head together first, you know."

He paused.

"It was hard for a long time. I'm sure it was worse for you."

Alban sighed.

"I lost my son, Blaine. That hurts so much, so much. You never expect your children to go before you, especially not to be stamped out like he was in the blink of an eye. I saw my son before he went off that night, a picture of health. The next time I saw him was stretched out in a morgue and I had to identify his body."

Blaine gulped and nodded.

"But Blaine. You were _there_. They got you, too. You got hurt inside and out. I understand why you wouldn't want to bring something so sad into a relationship that clearly brings you a lot of happiness, the happiness you deserve."

His voice went reedy.

"You and Kurt like milk and sugar?"

Blaine knew a deflection when he heard one.

"Yep, milk and sugar for me, milk for Kurt. Thanks for this."

They lingered around the coffee station, Alban making sure that Blaine had both his most recent mobile number and the family's new home address in Fort Wayne, Indiana.

"We should go back. It's been great to see you. I worry about you. I think of you every day."

He stopped halfway between the coffee station and Kurt and Robin.

"I know you're probably freaking out. I certainly am. But don't feel under _any _pressure to write or call. I mean, we're here if you need us, but, yeah…"

"I'll call."

"Okay. I look forward to it."

"Hey trooper," Alban said, slapping a hand on Robin's shoulder. "We'd better get going, it's a long drive back and I don't want to hit the traffic."

"Bye Kurt," Robin said. Then he stared right into Blaine's gaze, his eyes sparking with the hint of tears.

"See you around, Blaine. And for the record, the Warblers deserved to win."

And they left, three people united by a single loss separated once more.

"They are your friends from before, aren't they?" said Kurt into the floor.

"Yes, they are."

"Okay," said Kurt. "Man this is good coffee. On a scale of one to Lima Bean, I'd give it a six."

"Wow, high praise," Blaine laughed, wanting to take Kurt's hand but resisting as they walked side by side back to the Warbler dressing room.

They'd made it at least halfway when a cretinous guy in a Westvale hoodie identical to Robin's yelled "Fucking fags" at them.

Each ignored the other's flinch.

* * *

><p>Neither could really recall the minivan ride back to Dalton. Blaine's eyes were hazed over as he tried to process the day; Kurt was silent as he stroked his fingers over his boyfriend's hands in what he hoped would be a reassuring gesture. When they got back to the school they almost automatically drifted to Kurt's car, Blaine clambering into the passenger side with just a hint of a smile.<p>

Kurt climbed into the other side.

"Ummm. Are you okay to bury Pavarotti today? I just thought, you know, he can't fester around Dalton forever and I think I know a spot. And I have a shovel in the boot."

No, Blaine thought. No no no no no no no no.

"Yeah, that's fine."

With that, Kurt trotted towards the school. He returned just minutes later clutching the sparkliest box Blaine had ever seen. Orrin would've loved it.

* * *

><p>They end up burying the bird under a tree in the park across the road from Lima Memorial Cemetery, Blaine digging the hole a bit too deep just to be sure that dogs won't dig it up. Kurt fidgets when they lower the casket into the grave, distracting Blaine from his own bad memories as he asks a question that at first made Kurt change the subject but then proved to be exactly what he needed.<p>

In the remaining short drive to the Hummel-Hudson household, Kurt finds himself telling Blaine that his mom was buried under a similar tree in the cemetery, how the leaves always whisper when he sits at her grave. It distracts him from the silence and emptiness sometimes, he says. He likes it there, inasmuch as he can like a place that will forever keep a person taken too soon.

Blaine nods and says nothing of the burial plot he visited for the first and last time a year and a half ago. Time can't wipe out the memory of all the stone obelisks that towered around that unmarked grave, the ashen faces through the heavy rain. The ground had probably settled by now, the headstone would be there. Orrin Blake, Beloved Son and Cherished Friend. Or something. He should go visit.

* * *

><p>The rest of the car ride passed in silence, each boy wrapped up in his own thoughts. Kurt snapped out of it first.<p>

"Blaine? ... Blaine?"

He was stared straight ahead.

"Blaine?"

"Mmmm?"

"Let's do something that will make us happy."

A beat of silence as Blaine came back to life.

"Gettin' our kissin' on?" he said as he smiled, probably for the first time in twenty minutes. It was a joke. Of sorts.

"You're such a teenager, Blaine," Kurt said primly. "I was thinking more along the lines of making and eating cupcakes."

"But you're a teenager toooooo, Kurt." It was almost a whine.

Kurt grinned wickedly as they pulled up at the house.

"Exactly. That's why I _was _thinking about making cupcakes. Now, things have changed."

* * *

><p><strong>AN I'm back! I have a twelve day gap between now and my next exams so I thought I'd update. ****Thank you so so so much for sticking with me. I know it's hard to remember what's happening after a long time without an update, so I really am so appreciative that you've stuck around. Enjoy today's bumper double Glee :D Eeeee. ****Hope you enjoyed this, let me know what you think :) Also, I have a tumblr (same username). I don't really understand how to use it and mostly just reblog elephants and stuff, but I'd love it if you came and said hi :)  
><strong>


	27. Never Forget

**Chapter 27: Never Forget**

_Elepha__nts never forget._**  
><strong>

* * *

><p>It was cool, this relationship thing. Four weeks in and it was still the most incredible thing to be able to kiss Kurt (when they were in private and absolutely sure no one else was around), hold hands with Kurt, watch reality television with Kurt, be best friends with Kurt. The only problem was that the rest of the world was kind of boring. And very inconvenient.<p>

Everyone seemed to get in their way. The Hummel-Hudson household had quickly become a no-go zone if they wanted anything more than shy glances across a dinner table, which was kind of always. Though Burt said he liked the peace of mind of them being in Kurt's room where they were safe, the family was large and busy and there was always some movement going on somewhere which stopped the two of them from ever quite getting into the mood. Blaine would jump out of his skin with even the slightest disturbance, the memories of his first kiss replaying until the warm air of Kurt's bedroom transformed into the phantom chill of freezing concrete against his freshman skin.

Blaine hoped that Kurt wouldn't notice it: his boyfriend was, after all, pretty jumpy himself.

After Kurt's bedroom they'd tried their cars, driving off to godforsaken spots miles from anywhere in the hope of being able to practise their favourite after school activity. But Blaine kept twitching. A rustling of a tree, a bird taking to the air, a cloud moving to cover the sun, anything could set him off.

After two weeks, Kurt had mentioned it in the most delicate way possible. Well, as indirectly as it is possible to be when you are cuddled up nose-to-nose with your boyfriend on the too-small back seat of a station wagon.

"Maybe we should… maybe we should try at your house instead?"

Blaine's eyes widened.

Kurt backtracked rapidly. "No, no, not like _that_. Just, we might feel a little safer if we're behind a locked door and I just really want to be able to hold you without thinking about other people and –"

"I still haven't told my parents about us. You can't come home with me, they'll be able to _tell_."

"Do you really think they'll care? You've been out for a while, right? They must be used to the idea by now."

Blaine had started shaking his head before Kurt had even finished the sentence.

"Kurt, you don't get it. They're so messed up. _They're_ the teenagers in the house, except they cover it up with suits and ties and caviar. They're inconstant and unpredictable, they don't understand me at all. And my grandfather, well…"

"What about him, Blaine?"

Blaine took a breath, surprised that it almost felt good telling Kurt these things.

"He's kind of king douche of the world. He criticised me before I could even talk, told me I was useless at things before I even began to try them. You can imagine how it went when he found out about me being gay. Though apparently it wasn't much of a surprise."

Kurt laughed a bit. "I don't think you're that flaming. Relatively, at least."

Blaine laughed with him for a moment, but then frowned as soon as he remembered what they had been discussing.

"Anyway, a few months ago, he basically cut our family out of his will and redirected the money into conservative associations and anti-gay charities out of sheer spite."

Kurt's eyes widened as sadness draped itself over his face. Before he had a chance to respond, Blaine continued.

"Wouldn't be so bad if he were running a lemonade stand in Wyoming. Unfortunately, he's the CEO of one of the largest logistics companies in the country. He's earned a shitload of money in his life. Few friends, but loads of money."

"Boo him."

"Exactly. But yeah, I just don't want to stir the pot, y'know."

Kurt nodded, contemplating it for a moment.

"But what about your parents? Surely they must be more tolerant than your grandfather."

Blaine looked down, remembering the last time he'd introduced a guy to them and what had happened after that.

"I just… just… I don't want to spoil anything between us."

"Oh Blaine," Kurt said, rubbing his shoulder, "I'm sure that's the last thing that'll happen."

"I don't know," Blaine replied, twisting his fingers together awkwardly. "I never know what's going on any more."

* * *

><p>Blaine came to understand the world through Kurt and Kurt alone. Latched onto his side he felt more confident than ever, and their time alone became a kind of drug that let him forget everything except the familiar warm body cuddled up against him.<p>

The 'Night of Neglect' happened somewhere along the line between kissing and making out. They'd walked around Kurt's old school in the interval, the corridors almost exactly identical to those of Westerville East except that McKinley had somehow managed to retain a something of a heart.

But then the hulking figure of David Karofsky had emerged from the shadows, tall and threatening in the dimly lit corridor. He stood opposite Kurt, happiness facing fear right in front of Blaine's eyes.

The worst thing was that Blaine had been completely unprepared to see him. He hadn't thought of a back up plan, he hadn't considered the _danger_ of the evening at all.

All he remembered was something rushing through him, something that told him to protect Kurt at all costs. He'd do anything for him, anything to keep him safe.

Santana appeared right as Blaine was about to tell Kurt to run.

And in that second, that moment when battle was in the air and sweat was running off his brow in the midst of the beginnings of an unwinnable fight, Blaine was able to see what Orrin had done. For the first time, he completely understood.

He fidgeted for the rest of the evening, tossing in his seat as he realised that Orrin had felt that same protectiveness towards _him_. He'd thrown himself under the proverbial train to make sure Blaine made it out alive, he'd put his own life aside to focus on the person he cared about. And all Blaine had done in return was run. Why hadn't that defensive instinct kicked in before when Orrin could still have been saved? He'd been too cowardly to do anything but stand back and watch his friend die.

And so, after the show, he made out with Kurt in the empty Hummel-Hudson house for the very first time.

And then Blaine didn't really think about Karofsky or Santana's bladed hair or even Orrin any more.

All he thought of was Kurt. Kurt made it better. Kurt stopped him from thinking.

And that could only ever be a good thing.

And his hips had flicked upwards. He'd been too lost to stop them.

Then Kurt had stopped everything.

"My dad'll be back soon."

Blaine didn't notice that Kurt had had tears in his eyes when they'd kissed goodnight.

* * *

><p>"Blaine, we need to talk about what happened last night."<p>

It was so quiet that Blaine half-thought he'd imagined it. They'd just got into the car, Blaine at the wheel, Kurt in the seat next to him. The conversation had jumped suddenly from their mutual agreement that pleather leggings with Uggs were the biggest fashion crime in existence, and it was totally jarring. And suddenly, blue eyes were staring right into Blaine's own, searching and imploring. Blaine found himself panicking, even though Kurt's voice had remained soft.

"Oh god, didn't you like it? Was I awful at it? Did you not want to, did I not ask properly or –"

"Blaine, I'm not just a warm body." It was little more than a murmur.

Blaine looked up at him, eyes wide. Was that really what Kurt thought?

"What? Kurt, I know that."

Kurt gulped. There was silence for a few moments.

"It's just… It's just that yesterday, it seemed like you weren't really looking at _me_. You didn't want to know what _I_ wanted, you just… you just seemed to take take take."

Blaine's mouth dropped open. He'd thought he was a terrible friend but it turned out he was an even worse boyfriend, and now he'd fucked up big time.

"Did you not want to?" It was barely whispered.

Kurt sat still for a while, finding the courage to look into Blaine's eyes again.

"Blaine, listen to me. It's not that I don't want that with you, and someday I'm sure I'll want a lot… well, more. It's just, you've got to understand, this is a _really _big deal for me. You've probably noticed that there are only a few people I really allow in my personal space…"

His lips twitched upwards and at that moment, Blaine knew they were okay. Kurt continued.

"Okay, that sounded dirty. Anyway, the truth is that I just find it hard to trust people. And I guess this is all really new for me so it's kind of a bit… scary. And I like talking about stuff first. And I want to make sure we're doing this because we care about each other and not… and not because of anything else."

Blaine could feel his eyes filling with tears. He grabbed Kurt's hand over the central console of the car, hoping he'd never have to let go.

"I'm really sorry, Kurt. So sorry. I promise we'll never do _anything _you don't want, okay? We'll go slower. This is all new for me too, remember, I'm scared and –"

"So why?" Kurt was whispering, clearly unsure whether this was something he could ask.

Blaine looked down.

"I care about you so much."

Kurt smiled a bit, then frowned.

"That's not answering the question."

"Umm…" Blaine replied, "I guess it… I guess I just really like kissing you and it makes me forget about other stuff that I don't want to think about."

Kurt's eyebrows went up as he put the pieces together.

"So, like Karofsky, right? You wanted to forget about him."

"Well, not exactly Karofsky. Just… Karofsky and that situation and you standing there just… it just took me back to –"

"Back to before Dalton?" Kurt finished for him.

Blaine nodded.

There was silence.

"I think…" Kurt was talking slowly, clearly reticent to speak but at the same time feeling that this needed to be said. He finally looked up at Blaine, straight and direct. "I think that you need to talk about this, Blaine. Not necessarily with me, but to someone else you trust. You can't just cover up your emotions by doing _stuff_. It won't work."

Blaine knew it was true. But there was no one else he could talk to. Everyone was either too close to the situation or too far from it to truly understand. The only person was Kurt. Kurt would get it. But Kurt was also his boyfriend, and he didn't want to tarnish the only true happiness in his life with the pain of the worst thing that had ever happened to him. And it was the worst thing ever because Kurt would have to find out one day but it was so ha –

"My best friend died."

Kurt's hand squeezed his. He hadn't even realised he'd said it, not really, it had just slipped out before he'd really been aware that he was speaking at all.

He felt a single tear roll down his cheek.

"And it was my fault."

Kurt's had was suddenly on his shoulder as he began to sob. "Sssssh, sssssh, Blaine. I'm sure it wasn't your fault."

"It was. Because I ran away. I always fucking run away."

They sat in a stifling silence as Kurt's hands slowly worked their way up and down Blaine's arms.

"What was your friend's name?"

Blaine's breath hitched.

"Orrin. His name was Orrin."

Kurt moved his head against Blaine's, bringing his body close as Blaine continued to cry.

"You haven't really grieved for him yet, have you?" Kurt whispered into his ear.

Blaine just shook his head as part of him realised that he didn't _want _to stop feeling like this. He wasn't ready to let Orrin go.

"It's really hard to let them go." Kurt said, echoing Blaine's thoughts exactly. "You just have to remember that letting go doesn't mean forgetting them or how important they are to you."

The world span as Blaine blinked through his tears.

"You'll still allowed to miss him, Blaine," Kurt continued. "Though it never really gets easier."

Blaine sniffed as he leant over, fitting his face against Kurt's neck.

Finally, he began to speak again.

"I know."

Silence. One breath. Two breaths.

"He was like a brother to me. He was two grades above me… He was the first person I came out to."

He felt Kurt nod.

"I can tell he is a really important person in your life."

The present tense made Blaine relax against Kurt's body. "You would have liked him. He was really into fashion and he was wickedly funny like you."

By the time they left the parking lot, Kurt _had been told_ that Orrin had blonde hair and green eyes and that he was the son of the man and boy they'd met at Regionals and that he was gay too.

In the silence of the first five minutes of the trip home, Kurt _deduced_ that the thing that killed Orrin had been sudden.

And that Blaine had been there.

And that Blaine had been seriously, seriously messed up by the whole thing.

Kurt wanted to stay with him; he couldn't leave him alone rattling around an empty house. But when he thought of his own house, all he could think of was Finn butchering people on the Xbox and his dad bellowing at the TV. He was pretty sure neither would be terribly good for Blaine.

"Can we go back to your house? We can't really go to mine, it's too loud there. I'm going to make you hot chocolate and we will cuddle on the sofa and bitch about all the outfits on the Project Runway marathon until I have to go home. When will your parents be back from the airport?"

"Like, around eleven I guess."

"Good," Kurt said, nodding. "Let's stop for groceries, we'll make dinner together to cheer ourselves up."

* * *

><p>After two hours of critiquing the outfits and half an hour of preparing some of the best looking food Blaine had ever seen, they were cuddled up together on the couch eating popcorn while their dinner cooked in the oven. Blaine felt so much better.<p>

"It's weird that I've never really seen the inside of your house," Kurt said conversationally, "It really is a beautiful home."

"Mmmmm," said Blaine with a mouth full of popcorn, "Weird."

"It's nice being somewhere where it's quiet."

"Mmmmm."

"It's nice being where no one will disturb us and there's no noise of football or ice truckers or computer-generated dying people."

"Mmmmm."

Two beats of silence.

"Umm, Blaine, I'm kind of suggesting that you kiss me but you're being oblivious."

"Oh," Blaine replied, "I thought… but… I didn't… I'm honestly totally fine with waiting."

"I'm not a _monk_, Blaine. I just don't think we should get ahead of ourselves, that's all. And we should make sure we're doing it because we want to and not because we want to cover up our problems."

"Okay," Blaine said slightly guiltily, swallowing his mouthful of popcorn and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"That's so gross," Kurt giggled.

"Hush, I have impeccable table manners."

And they leant in, lips moulding against lips and tongues twining around increasingly familiar tongues. Hands smoothed faces, chests drifted against chests.

"Let's lie down," Kurt suggested as they each pulled away for air.

"Okay." Blaine nodded.

And they continued. Blaine could feel every ridge of Kurt's body on top of him, the angle of his hips and his ribs and was that –

A door flew open and a throat cleared.

"Umm."

Shit.

They sat up as best they could, adjusting their clothes and crossing their legs as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Dad?"

"Umm, hello… hello Blaine."

The room fell silent, allowing the voice of Tim Gunn to flood into the room unimpeded. Blaine cringed as he watched Michael try to take in all the homosexual sights and sounds that were bombarding him.

He reached over to press the mute button, breaking the stillness.

And Michael was finally able to speak.

"Who is this?"

"Oh," said Blaine, leaping up from the couch as he reprised the role of perfect son. It _almost _seemed as if he hadn't just been caught making out with his secret boyfriend in the family's TV room.

"Dad, this is Kurt. Kurt, this is my dad."

Kurt's eyes were wide with fear, but Blaine felt a calm come over him. Part of him was almost _relieved _that things were coming out into the open. He realised then how tired he was of hiding.

He chanced a glance up at his dad, who looked infinitely more terrified than even Kurt did. Blaine watched as his father stumbled across the room, holding out a hand for Kurt to shake.

Kurt finally found his voice.

"I'm Kurt Hummel, Blaine's boyfriend."

Michael took a deep breath.

"I'm Michael. Blaine's dad."

It was all weirdly absurd, seeing these two parts of his life meeting like this.

"Blaine, that dinner smells nice, when did you learn to cook anything other than a hot pock – oh, hello, who are you?"

Karen had just walked into the room, carrying her black patent leather Louis Vuitton handbag and wearing a perfectly tailored black pencil skirt with matching suit jacket. Blaine watched as Kurt's mouth hung open, taking in the ruffled appearance of his father against the pristine ensemble donned by his mother.

"I'm… I'm Kurt."

"Hello Kurt, I'm Karen." She smiled widely, her white teeth framed with red lipstick. Blaine's heart leapt when he saw the faint crease of crows' feet beneath the layers of his mother's foundation: the smile was genuine.

"You smile like Blaine smiles."

Blaine's chest swelled with fondness as Kurt blushed.

"I hope you're not saying I grin like a maniac," Karen responded.

Kurt giggled. Karen grinned like a maniac, and Blaine felt himself doing the same.

Michael fidgeted as he stood in the centre of the room, his eyes flicking from wife to son to son's…

He cleared his throat, shifting from foot to foot.

"Karen, Kurt is Blaine's boyfriend."

"I gathered," Karen nodded, smiling. "Honey, why didn't you tell us you'd found someone?"

Blaine shuffled awkwardly. "Well you're not usually here and there was never a good mome–"

"So you've made this house your little love nest?"

Blaine and Kurt both blushed a fierce red. "No, I promise, this was the first time we've even been here together. We usually go round Kurt's."

Karen raised her eyebrows, giving Michael a meaningful look.

Blaine suddenly realised that he hadn't clarified that their relationship wasn't exactly at the physical level his parents (and everyone else) seemed to think it was, but Karen continued before he could say anything.

"Anyway, we'll leave you two alone. Enjoy your dinner. I'm glad you found Kurt, Blaine, maybe you'll get a better diet now that you have an alternative to hot pockets. And maybe he can teach you a thing or two about cooking, starting with how to turn on the stove."

She chuckled as she dragged Michael out of the room.

Blaine gaped at the door, almost refusing to believe what had just happened.

"Umm, Blaine? Was that okay?"

"Yeah," Blaine murmured, "I completely didn't think they'd react that way. As I said before, you never know with them. They're crazy. Even my dad…"

"Your dad looked like he'd seen a ghost."

Blaine turned to look at Kurt, taking in his perfect hair and tailored trousers and the cinched-in waist of his blazer.

"I'm pretty sure he's never met anyone like you before." Both of them could tell that his voice was full of love, even if they hadn't said it yet. "You're so unique, you must have come at a bit of a shock. Not to mention that he just witnessed first-hand how very homosexual his son truly is." He barked out a relieved laugh as he relived the exchange, and Kurt threw him a wide grin in response.

"Your mom," Kurt said, remembering, "her suit was _per-fect_. Like, perfect. Why didn't you tell me she had stepped right out of a Vogue workwear feautre? Not to mention that she's _Asian _and totally stunning, you never said anything about those little details either. I feel like there's so much you haven't told me yet."

Blaine's face fell.

"No Blaine, not _that_," Kurt clarified. "Just little things. Like, I you've never told me your favourite colour. Or your favourite dessert. Or your favourite animal, though I do have my suspicions about that one."

"Oh," said Blaine, "I guess stuff like that never really comes up in conversation. Like, I don't really notice anything about my mom or her clothes or whatever. Like, she's my mom. And a stylist chooses most of her clothes for her anyway. As for the questions, my favourite colour is navy blue, my favourite dessert is either chocolate mousse cake or Italian gelato, and I think you know my favourite animal already."

Kurt looked up at him.

"Like your necklace?" he said.

Blaine's hand moved up to grip the pendant through his shirt.

"Orrin gave it to me. And now I have my watch, too, from you." Blaine replied, a hint of a smile on his face. He looked at Kurt. "Elephants kind of follow me everywhere. I've been fascinated by them for as long as I can remember."

"I don't really have a favourite animal but I like Celtic mythology," Kurt said in response. "My mom was really into it, I notice it wherever I go." He paused. "It sounds stupid but sometimes I feel like she's leading me places, even though I know in my heart that she's gone."

At that, two pairs of eyes, two blue and two hazel, followed an identical trajectory up towards the ceiling. Around the edge of the room there was a continuous frieze, right along the join of the ceiling and the walls. It was decorated with a pattern made up of Celtic knots.

Blaine smiled. "It's still a nice thing to think."

They smiled and reached out for each other, holding on tight until they heard the oven timer begin to beep from the kitchen.

* * *

><p><strong>AN Exams are overrrr! Hooray! That can only mean one thing: more regular updates! I reckon there are fewer than five left, though, because sadly the end is nigh :( Hope you liked this one :)**

**Also, I recently wrote a one-shot called 'Stories from the Staircase'. It's about Kurt and Blaine and all the staircases that shape their lives and unlike this hefty monster, it's done in less than 10,000 words. Please do take a look (yay for pathetic begging \o/). **

**Thanks so much for all your kind reviews, alerts, and favourites, and of course your messages on Tumblr. I'm so happy I'm a Tumblr loner no longer! I'm so glad and touched that you're all sticking with me despite my horrendously infrequent updates, hopefully I'll be able to repay you with more regular chapters from now on! Thanks again, you all da best xxx**


	28. Born This Way

**Chapter 28: Born This Way**

"_When elephant steps on a trap, no more trap"_

- African Proverb

* * *

><p>Being with Kurt relaxed and inspired Blaine. He was producing more arrangements than ever, filling his satchel to bursting point with new ideas for how Kurt could be featured in both the Warblers and the chapel choir. For the first time in a long time, he was actually hopeful about their prospects at the Choir Games in Beijing; he couldn't wait to see Kurt's face when he got out of the Midwest for the first time, and he'd been feverishly reading guides about the city so they could make best use of the week they'd be spending there. From what he'd gathered, metropolitan China was going to be unlike anything any of them had ever experienced, and he couldn't wait to soak up all the new sights and sounds with Kurt by his side.<p>

Each night his hand would whizz over the manuscript pad, scribbling down tenor and bass harmonies to back up the solo soprano line. The Chapel Choir was rehearsing almost daily now, working late into the night as they tried out every single one of Blaine's many arrangements. The late afternoon sun streamed in through the stained glass windows as they rehearsed, bathing everyone's faces in a multicoloured glow, and the air of creativity seemed to bounce off the walls as individuals made slight changes that together made the arrangements far better than Blaine had ever anticipated.

He would often sit back in the choir stalls and close his eyes, blue light washing over his face as he listened to his hastily scribbled notes being lifted off the page. It was amazing, he was so lucky that he got to do this. And now, at this most important time, the choir seemed to be gelling in a way it never had, the choral line fracturing into twenty parts and then uniting back again as solo lines wove through the air like a kite in the breeze.

During the breaks, Kurt would come up to the tenor section to stir Blaine. He'd complain that the blue tinted light made him looked like a creature from Avatar, or that Blaine should sleep more if he was mistaking the hard wooden pew for a bed, or that it was a bad omen that the choirmaster could fall asleep during the performance of his own arrangements. Then they'd laugh and Kurt's hand would drift across Blaine's shoulder, spontaneous in the best way possible. It was all perfect in a way Blaine had never thought his life would ever be.

And as the days of that week went by, pages upon pages of manuscript paper began to accumulate in the chapel library. Every day, Wes would go in with yet another handwritten score, filing it neatly in the bulging leather-bound folder marked 'ANDERSON, BLAINE M. 2009-' for the use of future choirmasters. He'd look down the shelf that ran the length of the room, past DENMAN, ALASTAIR K. H. 2008-9 right down to where he knew the battered leather wallet marked DALTON, Mr RALPH J. R. M. 1857-89 to be. It seemed absurd that something that had begun as the pet project of the school's founder could have become an internationally recognised group, but Ralph Dalton had clearly believed in it as the shelving for choral arrangements (original to the chapel) stretched for over twenty metres. It was an extraordinary archive, and his friend Blaine was right there part of it, a part of history.

And now they had so many arrangements to choose from that no one really knew how they'd even begin to cut it all down to just four pieces. It was, Wes reflected, the best possible problem to have. And, better yet, the Warblers were in fine voice for the nursing home show they were doing on the side. Life was awesome.

* * *

><p>"Blaine," Kurt whispered as they sat side by side in the library.<p>

Blaine didn't stir from his manuscript book.

"Hey, Blaine."

"Oh, um, yeah?"

"Blaine, can we go outside? I need to talk to you about something."

Blaine peered over at the closed textbook that sat on the desk in front of Kurt. _Complex Numbers: A Mathematical Voyage_. He'd read it, cover to cover, last year. Before he could stop himself, he began talking a mile a minute, trying to compress the salient details into something Kurt wouldn't find too boring. "Okay, so complex numbers are so cool. All you really need to know is that they extend the idea of the one-dimensional number line into the two-dimensional complex plane."

He opened the book as he paused for breath, flicking through the pages until he found the page he wanted. He knew it like an old friend.

"See? This is the Argand diagram. The horizontal axis (re) is the real axis, the vertical one (im) the imaginary axis. So this is a diagrammatical representation of what the book is essentially about. The Argand plane is basically showing you –"

"Blaine," Kurt eventually hissed, "I randomly picked this book off the shelf to make the librarian think I was doing work. I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

As if on cue, a curt 'sssssssh' came from the librarian's desk.

Blaine gave Kurt a weak smile. "Sorry."

"You should be," Kurt whispered, smiling slightly. "Have you considered a career as an anaesthetist? Complex numbers would send me to sleep in no time."

Blaine laughed but Kurt quickly turned serious again.

"I still want us to go outside, Blaine. It's really important."

Blaine quickly scooped up all the manuscript sheets and shoved them into his satchel. He followed Kurt out of the library and into the quadrangle. They walked over to their favourite bench, the one between the chapel and the math classrooms, and collapsed onto it.

"So, what's up?" Blaine asked, trying to remain chipper though his panic.

Kurt took a deep breath. "I want to leave Dalton."

It was like a stab to Blaine's gut. He felt his mouth hang open as he stared at Kurt in disbelief.

"What? Why?"

Kurt smiled at him sadly.

"I really miss my friends."

"But I'm here, Kurt. I nee- I need you here, with me."

Kurt shook his head. "You don't need me, Blaine. Everyone here loves you, you're safe and well-respected and this school provides the academic challenge you need. And it's not like I'm breaking up with you or leaving you or anything."

Blaine's chest eased a bit as he heaved a sigh of relief.

Kurt looked around the quad and, finding it empty, grabbed Blaine's hands. "Did you really think I was going to break up with you? Nooo, you're not getting rid of me. No way."

"Then why are you going?" Blaine cringed as his voice came out as a pathetic whimper.

Kurt sighed.

"A lot of reasons combined. We don't have the money. I miss my friends. And this school, it's... It's hard because I usually stand out and I feel like here, I have to be like everyone else when I'm _not_ like anyone else and –"

Blaine nodded. He got it, the school was stifling Kurt.

"But what about Karofsky? And the jocks? They threatened to _kill _you, Kurt."

Kurt's face crumpled up with pain as he realised that Blaine was thinking he'd lose him too.

"I know," he eventually said with a voice full of sadness, "That's my only reservation. It's easy to forget what McKinley was like when everyone here is so easy."

At that moment, the footsteps of a Dalton boy came into earshot as he walked along one side of the quad. He threw them a little wave before he re-entered the building. They waved back.

"Who was that?" Kurt asked.

"Don't know. Seemed nice though."

Kurt leant his head on Blaine's shoulder. "It's so nice here. I couldn't even have dreamed about this school, you know. It's so rigorous but I actually really like it. And all the theatre stuff is amazing and the Warblers and the _Choir_ –"

Kurt sat bolt upright, remembering something.

"Oh god, Blaine. I'll be screwing up all your arrangements."

"Doesn't matter," Blaine murmured, thinking of the awful prospect of going to Beijing without Kurt, "Just as long as you're happy."

"No, Blaine. You shouldn't be accepting this. You've worked so hard and I'm trampling over all your plans."

Blaine just looked at him, trying to soak him up while he was still there with him in the school he loved.

"Blaine," Kurt continued, "I'm telling you to be angry with me."

Blaine paused, collecting his thoughts.

"I'm not angry. I'm disappointed because I like you being here and I like that get to spend so much time with you. And I really like how your voice fits into the Warblers. And the Choir. And I... And I was looking forward to going to China with you." He sighed and shook his head. "But you aren't built for Dalton."

Kurt frowned.

"You're built to be _you_, Kurt," Blaine said, desperate not to upset him. "And Dalton just churns out variations on the same theme: it's a conveyor belt that produces the archetypal clean-cut rich kid with just enough manners and charm to make him seem likably down to earth."

Kurt giggled.

"You're not really like them either, Blaine. Charming and well-mannered, yes; normal and in touch with reality, no."

Blaine shook his head, smiling. "You're right, I'm just as weird as you. I just cover it up better."

Kurt laughed.

"This is such a silly conversation. I might not even leave if McKinley doesn't up its game. It's just the money... And my friends... I really miss being in the New Directions, Blaine. They're going to _New York_. It's my dream to go to New York."

"We're going to Beijing," Blaine said unthinkingly. "We don't even have to pay for it, the organisers are shipping us all out there. First class. You could still come and then transfer back to McKinley in the fall."

Kurt sighed. "I just really feel like I want to go back to my friends. And if I stay at Dalton, even for the rest of this semester, I might not be able to pay for college in New York at all."

Silence.

"Are you unhappy?" Blaine finally asked, unsure as to whether he really wanted to hear the answer.

Kurt's eyes looked straight into his.

"No, not when I'm with you. And not really when I'm at Dalton, either. It's not even unhappiness as such, it's just a feeling that something is missing."

Blaine nodded, understanding that Kurt's mind was already made up. "I'll miss you."

Kurt's hand squeezed his.

"I know. I'll miss you too."

* * *

><p>Blaine rushed home after swimming club after school, keen to make a quick exit so no one would detect that he was upset. Besides, he needed to get started on some new arrangements for the Choir before Wes caught wind of Kurt's impending departure; Angry Wes was not something he wanted to inflict on his unsuspecting boyfriend and he was sure that having viable alternative arrangements would ward off some of the rage. He drove home trying to ignore the anxiety in his gut, pulling up at the house just as he had done so many times before.<p>

He grabbed his five bags out of the trunk. His clothes felt awful because he hadn't showered after being in the pool, making his skin itch from the chlorine. He piled in through the front door, rushing up the stairs to his room and collapsing at his desk. He worked solidly until eight o'clock, stopping only to eat the salad Kurt had prepared for him that morning and to take a shower. His parents returned at about nine, whispering in hushed tones as they stepped into the foyer.

And at ten, the phone in Blaine's room started to ring.

"Hi Blaine, we're home now." It was his mom. "Will you come down for a second? Your dad wants to talk to you in his office."

"Okay," Blaine said, panicking that he'd done something wrong. He checked himself: perfect grades, yes, no detentions, yes. But talking in the library... oh god, what if they'd told his parents that he'd been talking in the library? His feet felt like lead as he descended the staircase and knocked on his father's door, sure he was in trouble.

* * *

><p>His father looked more uncomfortable than ever as he sat behind his mahogany barricade of a desk. He was practically curled in on himself, the lamp in front of him casting a pallid glow across his face.<p>

"Umm, hello Blaine."

"Hi Dad..." Oh man, Blaine was hating this already.

Michael shuffled awkwardly in his seat.

"Take a seat, son," he eventually managed after Blaine had been standing at the door for at least half a minute. He needlessly waved his hand at the single chair facing the desk, as if his son wouldn't know where to sit.

Blaine took a breath and sat down in the chair. As the silence stretched out, he reached over and picked up one of the little plastic elephants that now paraded across his father's workspace, turning it over in his hands as he gave it a thorough inspection.

"They're the new promotional materials," Michael eventually said in a strained, nervous voice. "They're plastic rather than porcelain so as not to seem profligate. The indoctrination of the young needs to move into the modern age, apparently."

Blaine smiled slightly, amused by his father's cynicism as he looked down remembering –

"They're not as good as Trunky and Heffalump, are they?" Michael commented, looking at the elephant in Blaine's hands. Blaine gulped as he met his father's gaze, astonished that he remembered.

Finally, he smiled a bit and shook his head. "Yeah, I much prefer the old model."

And then a female voice filtered in from outside the room.

"Get on with it, Michael!"

It was Karen, bellowing from the hallway where she was no doubt listening at the keyhole. Michael looked visibly flustered when he yelled, "Go away Karen, I will" right back at her. Blaine gave his father what he hoped was an encouraging smile as they heard footsteps retreating towards the kitchen.

And then Michael reached into his drawer and proceeded to bring out several items, placing them on the desk one by one.

At the cucumber, Blaine had been confused.

At the condom, he was horrified.

And at the lube, he basically wanted to collapse into a heap on the floor and stab himself multiple times in the eyes.

Michael shot him an apologetic smile. "Needless to say, this was _not_ my idea."

Blaine just looked at his father with an expression of abject terror plastered all over his face.

"Now," Michael continued, his voice shaky, "Your mother thought this was a good thing to do because you have a boyfriend now–"

"I learnt it all at school already can I go now?" Blaine interrupted, his face burning a deep red as he tried to kick the chair back and leave the room as fast as possible.

"Stop!" Michael ordered. Then, more quietly, he said, "Just think of how much worse it will be if your mom finds out we didn't have this... discussion. She'll insist on a second attempt. Under her supervision. Do you want that?"

Blaine shook his head rapidly.

"Okay," Michael said with an uncomfortable laugh, "You may as well get comfortable. We'll be here a while." He paused as a small smile began to leak over his face. "Besides, you're lying. Your mom rang the school office to see whether sex education is on the Dalton curriculum and that nice office woman said it wasn't."

Blaine's face burned impossibly hotter as the image of Mrs. Hardwicke answering such a call floated into his mind. Oh god, she'd _remember _and she'd probably use it against him and... There was only one thing for it: he could never go to the school office again.

"Alright, let's get started," Michael began with super human levels of false cheer, his hands resting on top of the cucumber. Blaine sank lower and lower into the chair, hoping to somehow disappear beneath his father's line of sight so he didn't have to look at what he was doing.

"So, this is a cucumber," Michael said as he picked it up, obviously trying to avoid contact with any of the more directly sexual items. "You may recognise it from, um, salads. But in this instance we'll imagine it is… something else."

Blaine nodded dumbly as he cringed harder than ever. His father took a deep breath as he reached for the condom.

"Okay, so do you know what this is?"

Blaine gaped at him, horrified that his father would think he _wouldn't _know. He couldn't speak so he just nodded.

Michael wasn't having it.

"And?"

"It's a condom, dad," Blaine eventually managed, trying to keep his voice steady but failing monumentally.

His dad nodded as he took another deep breath. "Always use them, understand?"

Blaine nodded again, watching helplessly as his father's hands drifted towards the final item.

"And you're probably familiar with this already... um."

Oh god oh god Blaine just wanted to close his eyes as his dad held up the lube. Instead he nodded quickly, hoping that his dad would move on to something less awkward.

He hoped in vain.

"So I don't know how... um... _serious _your relationship with your boyfriend is right now, Blaine, but your mother and I... we want you to be safe and healthy and happy and..."

"But I know this stuff already and I'm not even having sex and this probably one of the most embarrassing moments of my entire life."

Blaine said it all at once in a last ditch attempt to get away from the horrible scene.

Michael paused, looking him up and down and sighing.

"I know, Blaine, I know you know. But I want to be sure you _understand_."

Blaine just groaned.

"I know you're a responsible guy. And you're also a very bright guy so I guess you've probably done a little research yourself."

Blaine just kept getting redder.

"But I'm your _dad_, Blaine. It's my job to make sure you're safe. And if you got AIDS or something, your mother and I... your mother and I would never forgive ourselves."

Blaine gaped at him.

"Okay," said Michael, finally coming into his own, "Now you're going to put the condom on the cucumber."

Blaine wanted the ground to eat him alive.

* * *

><p>"Oh my god Kurt, it was the <em>worst <em>thing ever, seriously," Blaine said the next day as he watched tears of laughter roll down his boyfriend's face. "You know the cliché stuff, like the cucumber and the... and the _things_. Yeah, he did all that. I am so confused by him right now. And when it was finally over, I went out into the corridor and my mom had snuck back and had listened in to the _entire thing _and she just gave me this look and then _winked_ at me. I'm pretty sure that feeling that level of mortification was against my human rights."

Kurt laughed even harder. "Serves you right for making my dad give me a sex talk," he eventually spluttered. "Now you understand the special kind of humiliation reserved for when your parents decide to teach you the facts of life."

"But I already knew them," Blaine whined. "It's different."

Eventually, Kurt stopped laughing and his face settled into a bright, sincere smile.

"But just think about it, Blaine. That was your _dad_. Giving you a talk about gay sex-"

"He didn't actually _say _the words. And it was my mom's idea. And some of it was factually inaccurate."

"It doesn't matter," Kurt responded, "He still loves you so much that he'd agree to do something he finds incredibly awkward to make sure you're always safe."

Blaine found himself smiling despite all that had happened as he realised that Kurt was right. "Our fathers are so weird," he eventually concluded.

"Yeah," Kurt replied, "We're both incredibly lucky kids, in that respect at least."

* * *

><p>Blaine didn't feel all that lucky when he found himself singing Kurt off on the steps outside McKinley just one week later.<p>

Hearing Wes bleat on about how the Warblers were doomed without their countertenor wasn't exactly high on his list of fun things to do either.

Nor was feeling a conversation opener on the tip of his tongue and looking across before he remembered that Kurt wasn't there.

It was pathetic. _He_ was pathetic, pining like this.

And the only thing that made it better was a Facebook photo of an overjoyed Kurt wearing his 'Likes Boys' t-shirt on the McKinley stage, an image that would have made him cringe had he not known Kurt or come to understand the general importance of societal visibility.

He'd been right all along: Kurt loved to be himself, Blaine liked to blend in. Kurt was a show choir man, Blaine's talents were leaning increasingly towards the classical side of things. Kurt was naturally congenial, witty and fun; Blaine was a dork who'd always felt uncomfortable in large groups no matter how well he disguised it.

The long and short of it was that Kurt belonged at McKinley and Blaine belonged at Dalton.

But most of all, they belonged together. At least for now.

And Kurt wasn't saying goodbye any time soon.

* * *

><p><strong>AN I didn't break my word, the SECOND update of the week is here! I'm as surprised as you are. Hope you liked it! If that Mr. Anderson/ Blaine scene felt awkward to you, you should know that I deserve to be pitied A LOT for having dug that particular moment up from my Recycle Bin of embarrassing childhood memories. Oh god. Thankfully, it wasn't quite as bad as Blaine's.  
><strong>

**Anyway, the next chapter should be coming pretty sooooon. Hope you enjoyed this one :D Please leave me love/ your own awkward experiences of parental interventions.  
><strong>


	29. Scars

**Chapter 29: Scars**

_Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars._

- Khalil Gibran

* * *

><p>Kurt's absence from Dalton was worse than Blaine had ever imagined. Sure, he'd been fine before Kurt had shown up on those steps, incomplete but still fundamentally okay. But <em>having <em>Kurt and now not having him was a different thing altogether: there was now an aching emptiness where there was once a gap waiting to be filled, a quantifiable need where before there had been the bittersweet thrill of the unknown. And Kurt was everywhere and nowhere at the same time: the phantom hand that fit exactly into his, the not-quite there steps that fell with his into perfect two-two time, the soaring countertenor that haunted him whenever he heard the Chapel Choir sing.

And now Kurt was busy helping Sam. Blaine wasn't jealous, not as such, but Kurt was spending a lot of time at the motel and their evenings and weekends were being consumed by all his wardrobe rummages and (unpaid) babysitting shifts. And Blaine understood it, he really did: right now, Sam probably needed Kurt more than he did. But somewhere, deep inside him in the place he kept the things he didn't want people to know, he just wanted his boyfriend back. Because he missed him. A lot.

He threw himself back into the music. There, yet again, Kurt was what was missing. He always had been missing, in everything, the piece of the puzzle hat was needed to make the picture complete. But now the Warblers knew what they were lacking, what that puzzle piece looked like, it was a hell of a lot more difficult to proceed: it's far easier to compromise when you aren't aware of the single remedy that could and would improve it all.

Blaine and Wes eventually decided to draft in some trebles from Collège Saint Kentigern. They held auditions in the music room of Saint Kentigern's, with Blaine sat behind the piano while Wes sat silently behind a desk at the back of the room, barely noticeable. Fifty boys auditioned, every one of them desperate for a leg up into Dalton but none who really felt the music. Blaine and Wes settled on seven of them. Blaine couldn't even remember their names; they all looked the same anyway. He just felt like an old ghost haunting a room in which he had once been so very, very alive.

He was sure of one thing, and that was that he wanted out.

But then the door thwacked open and a dishevelled boy fell into the room. His hair was curly and untameable, flying out at all angles despite the sides having been cropped short. He was just about to enter the teenage gangly phase but his face was still soft and his eyes were wide and shining. And he had braces. And he carried about five bags. He stood awkwardly in the doorway.

"Hi," he whispered, "I'm Peter. I hope I'm not too late."

Blaine smiled and shook his head, taking out yet another audition form.

"Hi Peter, I'm Blaine. And that loser over there is Wes. So just a few questions for you to start off with."

Peter nodded a bit as he moved to the centre of the room, hair bouncing up and down. Blaine chuckled.

"Okay, so how old are you and for how long have you been singing?"

Peter just smiled and shrugged. Finally finding his voice, he said, "I'm twelve. And I don't know, I just like to do it."

Blaine just wrote '12. A long time.' on the form.

"Do you have any formal training? Like a singing teacher or vocal coach or –"

Peter nodded again. "I'm a chorister here."

No surprises there: St. Kenny's choir was popular, namely because membership was rumoured to give kids an advantage in the Dalton interviews. It was also of a decidedly average standard, mainly because it was principally there to impart interview material rather than any kind of passion for choral music.

"And who's your favourite singer?"

This question had previously been met with fifty walls of silence.

"Um…" Peter twitched.

"It's okay," Blaine smiled, "My favourite singer is Katy Perry. No judgement here."

Peter grinned, braces glinting under the fluorescent classroom lights. "I think Beyonce is a _goddess_."

Blaine laughed. "I think my boyfriend would agree with you." He watched as Peter's eyes went so wide they nearly popped out of his head.

"Can I tell you a secret?" He asked the dumbstruck boy.

Peter nodded, still gaping at Blaine.

"My boyfriend, he likes Beyonce so much that he dressed up as her. You know, in the Single Ladies leotard and everything. He invited some of his female friends over and they learnt the whole dance and then they videotaped themselves." Peter giggled. Blaine tried hard not to think about _his_ exact response to that particular footage. "Anyway," he continued, "His dad caught him."

Peter's breath hitched. "What happened?" he whispered.

"Well, he did what any closeted gay kid would do and pretended he was sleeping with both of them." Peter went a deep shade of scarlet but Blaine continued anyway. "Obviously, his dad didn't buy it at all but Kurt, that's his name, didn't realise that. So he joined the football team because he'd rather be stuck in a locker room with his bullies than tell his dad he was gay. And then he won a game for McKinley, you know McKinley? And then he came out to his dad. And his dad, who has never missed an episode of Deadliest Catch and who wears a daily uniform that consists mainly of plaid, jeans and baseball caps, was completely fine with it."

Peter smiled. "That was a happy story."

Blaine nodded. Yeah, he lov – really really cared about Kurt. And man, he missed him. "Anyway," he said, stretching his fingers over the keyboard as he prepared to play the accompaniment, "What are you going to be singing, Peter?"

Peter delved into his satchel and produced a book of sheet music. Blaine recognised the green cover immediately: Biddlestone & Wyatt. They were choral publishers. The very best.

Peter was singing classical.

And then Blaine saw the writing on the cover.

"Uh, Peter, are you sure about this? This is quite difficult."

Peter nodded. Blaine was pretty sure he was making a big mistake.

"Okay, well, I guess we'll get started. Here's an A."

And then he started the accompaniment. And Peter began to sing. It was Pie Jesu. The Fauré Pie Jesu. Blaine knew the beginning was low for a boy soprano, but Peter could do it. And his interpretation… he just _got it_. He sung it in a way Blaine had never heard a boy soprano sing, like he felt it with his whole soul. And then the music got higher and Peter's voice was so beautiful Blaine thought he might cry. And oh god, he kind of was.

The piece came to an end all too quickly. Blaine looked across at a beaming Wes and then back to Peter, whose smile was consuming his entire face.

"Okay Peter," he said, "You're definitely in."

Peter's smile grew impossibly wider.

"Thank you," he chirruped, "I look forward to working with you."

And then he picked up his bags and skipped out of the room.

"That kid's more flaming than a bonfire," Wes commented. "He reminded me of you at that age."

Blaine shrugged. "Maybe he's gay, maybe not." His voice grew sad. "And yes, I was _very _like him at that age."

Wes looked down. "That was before everything, really, wasn't it?"

Blaine nodded. "I hope it's better for him."

"It will be," Wes said. "He'll have you. And probably Kurt as well."

Blaine sighed.

"I'm not a hero, Wes. I never know what I'm doing. I just bumble along as best I can."

Wes chuckled a bit, not understanding at all. "Whatever, Action Man. Let's get outta here."

And then they left, walking out of those familiar gates one last time.

* * *

><p>Blaine was far too busy integrating the new choristers into the Chapel Choir to take any notice at all of the rumours flying round about Kurt. He trusted him with everything he had, and he'd quickly learnt that Rachel's top-secret 'intel' (gathered from nightly stakeouts – <em>man <em>she needed to get a life) was neither probable nor accurate. And so when Kurt called him during lunch to assure him that the rumours had pretty much blown over and that Sam had found some new babysitters, they just laughed and moved on to discuss Peter and the newest Warblers and Barbara Walters' hideous collection of jackets.

When they were talking, Blaine felt whole again. "I miss you," he said, before he could stop himself.

Kurt laughed down the phone, high and happy. "I miss you too you big doofus. And I was thinking, we need to have another date. Are you around tonight? Breadstix?"

Blaine immediately felt excited. "Yeah, meet there and then go back to my house? My parents are _definitely_out this time so we can watch Project Runway in peace."

"Sounds good to me," Kurt said. "See you tonight, mister. Miss you."

"Miss you too," Blaine replied.

He hung up before he became pining and pathetic.

* * *

><p>It was ridiculous, really. <em>He <em>was ridiculous. But he skipped around school that afternoon on a complete high, ready to tackle anything and everything.

Vectors. BAM, he aced six whole pages of questions in under an hour.

History. Man, he hated History. 98% on the quiz after just two hours of revision.

Chemistry. He fucked up the experiment and Dr. Graves still gave him an A, patting him on the back as he said, "Oh Anderson, what are we going to do with that intrepid spirit of yours?"

And then it was the end of school and the new choristers were coming again in their minibus from Saint Kentigern. And Blaine couldn't wait. Because he was about to have one of his biggest choral ambitions come true.

They were doing the Allegri _Miserere Mei Deus_. For real. With real choristers. And tonight was the first time Blaine would assemble the sections they'd spent so long practising, the first time they'd go from bar 1 to bar 166.

It was a very different challenge from arranging: this time Blaine hadn't adjusted the score at all, but he _was_ the choirmaster and the conductor, the guy who had to control the living, breathing machine to keep it from breaking itself apart. And the piece was famous and beautiful and probably the single biggest thing that had made him pursue all this in the first place. So no pressure there.

Oh, and Peter had the solo.

* * *

><p>Peter and Blaine had been working on the five solo verses for three weeks, all told. They'd spent hours together in the Chapel, Blaine in his navy blazer and Peter in his green one, talking about the relative merits of Beyonce and Katy Perry, Marilyn Monroe and Audrey Hepburn, Berlioz and Brahms. They'd worked hard on his technique, pushing his voice harder and harder until he was able to reach that breathtakingly pure top C every time. And in the meantime, they'd struck up a strange kind of friendship.<p>

And now, huddled around the piano in the enormous empty chapel, they were discussing the meaning of the hymn.

"It's kind of about cleansing and purgation," Blaine explained, "About how you acknowledge your sins and how you seek redemption from God. How you, through God, can mend your broken spirit. The words are taken from Psalm 51."

He beckoned Peter to sit next to him on the piano stool. "Okay, so this, _'Amplius lava me ab iniquitate mea: et a peccato meo munda me'_ means 'Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin'. And this, this is my favourite line, _'Sacrificium Deo spiritus contribulatus'_ and so on. That means, 'My sacrifice is this broken spirit, you will not scorn this crushed and broken heart.'"

He noticed then that Peter's eyes had flooded with tears. "Do you even believe in God, Blaine?" he whispered.

Blaine gulped. "No. Not exactly. No."

Peter nodded silently, absorbing it.

"But that doesn't mean I _dis_believe either," Blaine continued. "I'm still trying to get to grips with it all, you know? My life… um… my life was quite difficult for a while and things like that… things like that make you question faith. And stuff. And just because I'm not actively religious, doesn't mean I can't appreciate the sentiment of redemption and seek the relief it brings. This… this music and its words… just do something to me I can't explain."

Peter was gaping at him again. "Me too," he eventually whispered, "Even though I don't really know what the words mean."

They went over a couple more bars before Peter looked at him again, a question burning in his eyes.

"Um, Blaine?"

Blaine looked up from the piano.

"How did you… um… how does it feel to… how do –"

"How do I know I'm gay?" Blaine finished for him.

But Peter shook his head.

"How does it feel to be in love?" He whispered. "Um, with a boy?"

Blaine chuckled awkwardly. "Uh, I don't really… Kurt and I, we haven't said that yet, we're not… I don't know if he..."

"But you do love him."

"I do love him."

Silence.

"And what does that feel like?" Peter's eyes were staring right at him, deeply invested in his every word.

"Like I'd do anything to make him happy," he whispered.

Peter gulped again. "I'd like someone to care for me that way," he eventually managed, his soft voice easing out into the silent chapel air. "I think it would be the best feeling in the world."

Blaine nodded. "It is."

Peter nodded back. "Um, can we start at bar 52?"

"Right, yeah," Blaine said, moving on and giving the A. "You're doing well, buddy."

"Thanks," Peter said. "So are you."

* * *

><p>After about fifteen minutes, the other Warblers and choristers began to file into the cramped choir stalls, trying and failing to get comfortable. Blaine took a deep breath before he gave that first downbeat, trying to settle himself in the frontman's shoes as the guy who'd start it all. The principal was there, as he often was, but there were other teachers too, including Mr. Plum the Saint Kentigern music teacher who had always seemed rather baffled by whatever Blaine did. Coach Wheeler was there too, for the first time. And Rachin, not for the first time. And Dr. Greene, Blaine's ultimate fangirl, who was there every damn time they did a full rehearsal like this.<p>

It was nice to have an audience but by ten bars in, Blaine didn't notice anything except the music and how it bounced off the chapel roof. How it sang to his soul.

Peter's solos were perfect, heartwrenching and gorgeous and transcendental.

And Nick's plainsong was good, a little rushed, but very good.

And the five-part choir, which then split into two different choirs, one five-part and one four-part, was glorious. Fantastic.

With one final chord that came far too soon, it was over.

And all was silent.

Then the ten or so people in the chapel began to clap enthusiastically, but Blaine didn't hear them at all. All he knew was that he'd done it. This was the piece they were missing, this was what they'd need in Beijing. It was the greatest feeling ever to have seen this through. He only wished Kurt was there to hear it. And Orrin. Orrin would have loved it, if only because Blaine had fulfilled one of his dreams.

And suddenly, someone was patting him on the back. Peter. He was beaming.

"Well done Pete," Blaine grinned, snapping into sociable mode, "You killed it, man."

"Yeah," Peter said with a wide smile, "I so did."

And then he scampered back to the other Saint Kenny's boys, bidding Blaine a quick goodbye.

And then, right there in the middle of Chapel, Blaine suddenly felt completely, unreservedly, fantastically… content. This, this was what he'd studied all those evenings for. This was what he wanted to do.

* * *

><p>The evening was only going to get better. He changed quickly at home, putting on a cardigan and polo shirt unlikely to offend Kurt's fashion sense and a pair of jeans. He flattened his hair, grabbed his keys, and jumped into his car. And then pelted off to Lima.<p>

He arrived just in time for their reservation, and his eyes immediately fell on Kurt in their automatic ability to spot his boyfriend in a crowd. Not that it took much effort: today, for example, Kurt was wearing a camouflage shirt, a grey waistcoat and a green bow tie. Blaine liked the outfit. He liked Kurt in the outfit. He liked Kurt for wearing the outfit. But he knew he would never, ever wear anything as outlandish as that for as long as he lived. He liked to blend in. It was safer that way.

They started talking. Fashion, music, New Directions, Warblers, Peter. "He's desperate to meet you," Blaine said. "I'm pretty sure he just wants to see someone who's gonna convince him it's all going to be okay. He likes my music but I don't think I'm that person, not yet."

Kurt smiled a bit. "I'll definitely come and say hi soon."

And then they talked Toni Morrison's _Beloved_. Snooki. The Situation. Then their meals came, Kurt's 'Special Spaghetti' and Blaine's lobster ravioli. Then they discussed the Real Housewives. And Andy Cohen. And the poetry of Elizabeth Bishop.

And then, in a gap in conversation as they waited for their desserts, Kurt stuck his hand out across the table. One half of a handshake. One half of a whole.

"Take my hand."

Blaine took it, completing them. He didn't care what anyone in the diner thought. This was them. This was their time. Kurt was beaming. No one could stop them from being happy.

"Blaine Warbler, will you go to Junior Prom with me?"

Oh. _Oh_. Kurt's face was so full of hope, smiling, happy, but something in Blaine was crushed as his loss, his grief and his _fear_ twisted together, his stomach contorting into a hundred aching knots.

He tried to keep it together. He honestly did. But Kurt picked up on it almost immediately.

Unfortunately, he took Blaine's panic as a rejection. His hand was whisked away, shooting back across the table to leave Blaine's appallingly, scarily alone.

And then Blaine realised it was time to tell him everything. Everything. Because he loved him and he wanted him to understand, even though he hadn't said it yet. He watched as Kurt's face softened as he began to realise that the Junior Prom probably _wouldn't_ be the social event of the season for Blaine. And he sat as Blaine tried not to cry in the restaurant full of McKinley students and old people, asking him questions in a way that was neither pitying nor harsh.

"They beat the living crap out of us," Blaine told him. Kurt, who knew he meant it literally, looked like his heart was breaking.

But then he started talking about Blaine going to the Prom to heal the wounds, to give him good memories. To cover the scars.

They clearly dealt with things differently.

But Blaine found himself agreeing, nodding inanely even though this was his worst nightmare. He just wanted to make Kurt happy. And he had no right to mess up one of Kurt's rites of passage. No right at all. But fuck he was scared.

Then dessert came. Kurt's cheesecake, Blaine's 'Brown Elephant'. It was basically a chocolate cake.

And Kurt talked Blaine's ear off about prom. How he had an _amazing _outfit planned. How he had the best corsage in mind. How the New Directions would be providing the music, and how Blaine could have a solo if he wanted.

His excitement was almost enough to move Blaine from utterly terrified to extremely frightened.

Almost.

But not quite.

* * *

><p>They drove to Westerville after the date was over. It seemed a long way given Kurt's midnight curfew, but any inconvenience was worth it in return for the empty house and Finn-free surroundings.<p>

They sat in the lounge for a while in front of Project Runway, eating popcorn even though they weren't really hungry. Blaine really, really wanted to kiss him. A lot. Ideally horizontally.

"Have you seen my room?" he ventured. Man, he was awkward.

Kurt's hand halted midway between the popcorn bucket and his mouth, causing several kernels to fall to the floor.

"Um, are you okay?" Blaine asked after a while, worried Kurt was hyperventilating and immediately regretting everything he'd said.

Kurt just nodded, his eyes wide.

"So, do you want to see it?"

"Yeah," Kurt replied. "Yes. It's just… I'm sorry… it's just, like, we don't usually _ask _beforehand, it just sort of… happens. And, like… _bedroom_."

Blaine smiled, nodding. He offered a hand. "Cool. Let's go."

And with that, Kurt carefully brushed the remaining popcorn kernels off his hand and into the bucket. He took Blaine's hand. No more popcorn tonight. Hopefully not, anyway.

* * *

><p>Kurt looked around as they walked into Blaine's room, taking in the navy blue <em>everything<em>.

"Wow Blaine," he drawled, "You sure like blue."

"Yeah," Blaine replied, "I chose this colour scheme when I was, like, ten maybe? I still like it though. It's quite soothing in its own way."

Kurt gravitated towards the desk. He fingered over its wooden surface before examining the wodge of manuscript paper that had accumulated on the right side. All potential Chapel Choir stuff.

Nodding, he moved over to the bookshelf. Blaine had run out of space so there were piles of novels on the floor in front of the shelving, a kind of overspill. Kurt hummed in approval as he glanced at their titles.

And then his eyes fell on the shelf to the left of Blaine's bed. The one with the cars. And some swimming trophies.

And Babar.

Blaine watched as Kurt reached up to gather the elephant into his arms. It felt like a strange completion, like Kurt was holding something important and in doing so kind of… meeting Blaine's past. Meeting Orrin. Kurt held the little toy reverently in his hands, turning him onto his back and then onto his front again.

"What's his name?" Kurt asked.

"Babar."

Kurt smiled a bit and examined the toy a little bit more.

"He was my first best friend, kind of sad but true," Blaine volunteered. "I got him the day I was born. From my Great Aunt Ruby." He paused. "He keeps a lot of secrets. He's probably the thing that started the whole… you know, obsession."

"Tell me."

"Elphus maximus can charge at 50 kilometres an hour. There are only 50,000 left. Probably even fewer now considering I learnt that particular fact when I was, like, seven."

Kurt nodded, smiling.

"The stitching is of very high quality."

"Orrin."

"What?"

"Orrin fixed him."

"What, when? I thought Orrin… I thought Orrin died." Kurt whispered the last word, as if he felt like he shouldn't be admitting it out loud.

"No, this was… this was before I really knew him. When I was eleven. I got beaten up on Westerville Main Street . It was two of the same people who… yeah." Kurt's expression made it clear that he absolutely understood what Blaine meant. "Yeah, so they beat me up and they called me the f-word even though _I _hadn't even figured out I was gay at that point. I was just a weird kid with no friends and I liked talking to my toy elephant, because I was really lonely but also painfully, cripplingly shy. Then I bumped into Orrin on the street and he took me for ice cream and fixed Babar and the rest is history, you know."

Kurt nodded.

"He was working in the tailors' at the time, over the summer. And he repaired Babar for me. He even did it in multicoloured thread. Because before, _before_ before, the trunk had kept falling off through, like, over-love. And my mom couldn't sew so she'd just sorta stab him with whatever thread she had to hand. And when those boys ripped the trunk clean off… Orrin, Orrin repaired him properly, but so he would sorta… have scars. So it wouldn't seem like I'd just forgotten it."

Kurt gulped. "Wow, that's… that's an amazing story." He unconsciously hugged the elephant closer to his chest. "I guess… I guess our scars show us for who we really are, a history written into the flesh, right? With time, our wounds will heal, but the skin… it never goes back to being quite the same. It just kind of patches itself up as best it can as we try to carry on. You're whole again but altered forever. And that's what a scar is, I think, it's on the inside as well."

Blaine felt a bit choked up. "I've never really thought about it that way," he said, pondering it. He subconsciously rubbed at his leg where they'd put the pins in as the two of them sat in complete silence for a few, drawn out moments.

Then.

"I have a scar on my leg." He flinched at how inappropriately sudden the announcement seemed.

"Yeah…" Kurt murmured, still clutching Babar as he perched on the edge of Blaine's bed. "I saw it when you were swimming. From where they… um… cut it open to put pins in, right?" Blaine shuddered. "I take it… I take it your Sadie Hawkins night was that 'accident' you were telling me about in the Gap."

Blaine sat up straight, astonished Kurt had remembered. That he'd _noticed_ him in such detail.

"Yeah," he breathed. "The bullies… _murderers_… they, jumped up and down on my femur until it smashed. Luckily the doctors were able to save the bone."

Kurt winced.

"And you had to give up swimming?"

"Competitive swimming at the level I was at, yes. Though that would probably have happened anyway. I mean, it's very time consuming and the training is very boring if you're in the pool for hours every day."

Kurt nodded, taking it in.

Then he shifted over to where Blaine was sitting. He reached over and stroked Blaine's arm, all the way from shoulder to wrist before he took his hand.

"Thank you for telling me, Blaine," he whispered after a while. "I mean, I obviously _wondered _about you… first how you were so perfect, and then… and then how you were so… kind of…"

"Damaged?" Blaine volunteered.

Kurt swallowed and shook his head.

"No. _Hurt_. And I must say… if going to the McKinley prom is going to bring back bad memories or trigger you or, you know, make you uncomfortable in any way, just tell me and we'll go out to a nice restaurant instead. My choice. Because it's my turn."

Blaine smiled a bit.

"I'll try. I mean, I want to go. It's just… I'm… I'm scared, you know?"

Kurt nodded. "Understandable."

"And we'll have to get ready at your place. Because this room, my room… it's where Orrin and I got ready before… before. It wouldn't be setting the right kind of tone, for me at least."

Kurt swallowed and nodded again. Blaine noticed him looking round the four corners of the room as if he could somehow see Orrin in the walls. Two years ago, Blaine knew, he'd have been right here. But now there was hardly any trace at all. Blaine had looked really hard many times.

He continued to talk despite the lump growing in his throat, trying to lighten the mood.

"We cut all my hair off in the bathroom before it," he chuckled forcedly. "I used to have quite long hair that kind of fell all over my face. He tricked me into getting rid it. I was kinda cross at first but now I like it. It's sort of like a good scar, my hair. Something from him to me."

Kurt looked at the hairstyle critically. It was probably equal parts hair and product at this point.

"Could use a little less gel," he hinted.

Blaine laughed a bit. "You cannot say that without seeing it in its natural state. And that isn't an offer."

They laughed for a bit.

And then after that they sat in companionable silence for a while.

And then they started talking about inconsequential nothings. Hair products. Oprah. Tyra.

And they ate more popcorn.

And then it was curfew, so Blaine drove Kurt home.

And on the late-night drive back to Westerville, Blaine felt a funny thing through the fear of the prom and the bittersweet memory of Orrin and the relief at having finally managed to tell Kurt what had happened.

Yeah.

He felt

Somewhat

At peace.

Even though he'd been cockblocked by bad memories and the scars of a toy elephant.

* * *

><p><strong>AN Hey guyz. So, he told him. And Kurt met Babar. Eeee.**

**If you're interested, two YouTube videos are up on my Tumblr (mrssosostris . tumblr . com – minus spaces). The first is of a chorister (who looks very much like Peter) singing Fauré's Pie Jesu, Peter's audition piece. The second is the choir of King's College, Cambridge, singing the Allegri Miserere. Interesting factoid for you: _Miserere Mei, Deus_ was composed by Gregorio Allegri in the 1630s for exclusive use within the Sistine Chapel. Then, at the age of fourteen and at mass in the Vatican, Mozart heard it sung and committed it to memory, and he transposed it note for note that same day. At one point, there are nine different intricate parts going at once, four in one choir and five in another. Mindblowing. If you don't know it or want a refresher, it's definitely worth a look as it's probably one of the most beautiful things ever to leave a human being's head. For those of you reading on or around 23rd June 2012, it's probably on the front page of my tumblr. For those of you reading later (aaargh future people, _please_ say I pass my degree!), it'll be under the 'apoe bonus material' link on the left-hand side of the page.**

**Anyway, hope you enjoyed the chapter and that you find the time to listen to the Allegri Miserere. It'll seriously, seriously be worth your while.**

**Thanks so much for reading :) News on my next multichapter at the end of the next update. Peace out bruvvas :)**


	30. Teaching Him How to Dance With You

**Chapter 30: Teaching Him How to Dance With You  
><strong>

One pair of patent leather dress shoes and one pair of knee-high lace up leather boots lay waiting by the Hummels' front door, gleaming under the warm glow of the old lamp on a side table. The sound of a car engine signalled Finn's departure to Quinn's, an arrangement decided on mostly by Carole, ever-mindful of her son's endless ability to put his foot in it. Loud music blasted from Kurt's room, probably a boppy Katy Perry number, and faint thumps indicated to Burt (who was downstairs) that his son was probably dancing and dressing at the same time.

But in Kurt's bathroom, Blaine was sitting on the toilet (lid down), soaking wet and wrapped in a towel, fiddling with his necklace and staring into space. He couldn't believe this was happening, that he was about to do it all over again. He couldn't even bring himself to move.

But then the music stopped. Two taps sounded against the wood of the door.

"Blaine?" Kurt's voice rang out clearly into the bathroom.

"Yeah?" Blaine replied, trying not to sound scared or pathetic even though he could feel both of those things feasting on his insides.

"Are you okay, you've been in there for ages?"

"Just doing my hair," Blaine replied, finally getting up from the toilet and moving to the mirror to inspect the damage inflicted by the shower. Damn, it was a complete and utter frizzball.

"I can help if you want," Kurt offered.

Blaine's eyes shot to the lock on the door to check it was securely closed.

"NO… umm, no it's okay," he said, probably far too quickly. He sensed Kurt gulp behind the door. "Just, I have a _system_. And, um, I don't have any clothes on."

"Oh," Kurt murmured, his voice somewhat strained. "I'll, uh, leave you to it then."

"See you in a minute," Blaine replied quietly as he unscrewed the lid of his gel and slathered it all over his head. He grabbed the comb, watching helplessly as his hand shook as he tried to flatten his hair. Though he did this every morning and then frequently throughout the day, today it just wouldn't _go _right: it was curling before he could get the gel to weigh it down, messing uncontrollably from where it was just that bit too long. Maybe he should cut – no, perhaps not. Not now, anyway.

Hair finally finished and reasonably dry, he slipped on his board shorts and a small ropey old t-shirt and headed out of the bathroom, ready to collect his rented tux from where it was hanging in Kurt's closet, safe from the splash zone of the shower. He stepped out into the bedroom and Kurt…

Kurt didn't have a shirt on. Or an undershirt.

And his jeans were sitting low on his hips, and his hair was very ruffled, and… God.

"Um," Blaine gulped, trying desperately not to look and to look sneakily and to just _stare_ all at the same time.

"Oh my god Blaine, go back into the bathroom!" Kurt screeched, trying to cover his chest with his arms.

Blaine just stood there, dumbfounded.

"Go!" Kurt repeated, pointing at the door as if Blaine were some kind of disobedient puppy. This time Blaine flinched, but still did not budge.

"Why?" he eventually asked, hardly noticing he'd spoken at all.

"_Because_, Blaine, in case you haven't noticed, _Idon'thaveashirton_."

"Um, yeah… sorta… did notice… actually." Blaine inwardly cursed himself for being such a tool. But it was a lost battle. "_Youlookreallygood_."

Kurt frowned but sort of… looked kind of pleased at the same time.

"Kiss me," Blaine mumbled, quiet enough, he hoped, that Kurt would only hear him if he wanted to hear _it_. "Please." He couldn't stop himself from looking at Kurt (probably pathetically needily), watching the way his boyfriend's hands twisted in front of the place where his jeans met his chest. His heart thumped, among other things.

Kurt's eyes fixed on the floor and he bit his lip. "Um, are you… are you sure this is because… you, uh, like the way I look without a shirt on or… because you want to distract yourself?"

Blaine checked himself. No, nope, he was pretty sure that for once he _hadn't_ beenthinking of the dance or the fear or anything else. Just Kurt. And _chest_. But it was like The Game: now he'd thought of the prom, he'd lost. So that was probably weighing into it too –

He realised at that point that he didn't care about the technicalities.

"Um, the first one. I just… I just want you to kiss me."

And then, somehow, Kurt's slim body was in his arms and their lips were touching. And his hands were feeling their way across skin, skin skin skin skin skin skin skin. And he felt want and love (no Blaine, not _now_) and… and then he felt, um, _Kurt_. Right against his leg.

And he was pretty sure Kurt was feeling something not altogether dissimilar.

They carried on anyway.

But then he felt something else. Something thick and a bit powdery, thinly coating the tips of his fingers. He broke away for a second, bringing his fingers up from behind Kurt's shoulders to examine them. They were covered in what appeared to be concealer.

"Fuck," he muttered.

Kurt looked into his eyes, panicked. "Sorry, sorry, Blaine, I'm _so_ sorry, I didn't mean to get, you know…" He paused, his eyes flicking to the floor. "Hard."

In any other situation, Blaine would have probably fainted and died and gone to heaven and then asked Kurt to record _that_ word so he could set it as his text tone and ring tone and doorbell.

But now, in this moment, the air felt weighty and all he wanted was to clarify one thing.

What the fuck was on his fingers?

He took a deep breath and stepped away, maintaining contact only by reaching for one of Kurt's hands.

"No, Kurt, _no_. That's not it. I didn't mind. Really I didn't."

Another breath.

"I was actually asking… uh… what this stuff is?" It came out as a whisper as he unfurled his hand under his boyfriend's gaze, watching as panic spread over his face as he paled to a ghostly white.

And then Kurt gulped. "Um. It's concealer, Blaine."

Blaine nodded as his fears were confirmed. He summoned everything he had so he could look deep into Kurt's eyes.

"Are they hurting you?" It was barely a whisper.

Kurt shook his head, maintaining eye contact. "It's just to cover a few… scars… from where I cut my back on a bottle when they threw me in the dumpster in freshman year."

Blaine gulped.

"Turn around," he whispered.

Kurt did.

And Blaine wouldn't have noticed, really, he wouldn't have, but there was something about the way the light was streaming through the curtain and the particular fall of the shadows over Kurt's broad shoulder blades that let Blaine see the smudged remains of the concealer that had once covered the three pale scratches that marked his boyfriend's back.

Kurt laughed humourlessly as Blaine's fingers traced over the marks. "It's not supposed to come off without special wipes. It's waterproof, but apparently not _Blaine_-proof."

Blaine didn't laugh.

"Why did you cover them up?" he whispered.

Kurt shrugged. "I don't like to think of them. They're not noticeable, only when I tan a bit or when you're looking close up, but I always _feel _like they're really visible. And they're my past, they don't matter to me now."

Blaine nodded, even though Kurt still had his back to him.

Silence.

"I don't want to go," he whispered at the floor. It was out before he could stop it.

Kurt whipped around to face him.

"What?" he said, his voice suddenly tinged with harshness.

Blaine flinched.

"I don't want to go," he repeated.

Kurt took a deep breath to calm himself down. "Blaine, we agreed that we're going. You said you wanted to go. That you wouldn't let it dominate your life any more."

"But I don't want you to get hurt."

"We won't get hurt, Blaine. You're being _paranoid_."

Blaine breathed, feeling anger bubble in his chest that Kurt could be so knowingly _reckless_. But no words would come out. His mouth just opened and closed like a useless goldfish.

"You need to move on from this, Blaine," Kurt continued, having no such difficulties, "And I'm not being heartless or senseless or _anything_ other than honest. Because you let this fucking thing _dominate_ everything you do and yes, you're going to be concerned, but you can't let it stop you from living your life."

Blaine felt his eyes fill with tears. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I don't mean to spoil things."

Kurt just groaned and rolled his eyes. "No, Blaine! Don't behave like a kicked puppy or some kind of martyr or something. You need to stand up for yourself."

And that was it: Blaine just snapped. "Fine," he found himself almost yelling, "I will. I'll say everything I'm thinking. One: I don't want to go to the prom. I'm going because _you _wanted to go and I'm so crazy about you that I forgot about my own crazy messed up head for long enough to agree. Two: I'm still upset that you didn't listen to me, like, at all, and that you're still gonna wear that fucking kilt with that fucking jacket and that… fucking sporran thing. You look so _gay_, Kurt. It's practically an invitation."

Kurt gaped at him. Blaine continued anyway.

"Three: I'm finding it really difficult to think of anything other than you being dead and me being alone or the other way round and it's fucking terrifying Kurt, it is. All I see when I fall asleep is what happened _last time_, except it's you… instead of Orrin. And I can't lose you. I can't. I can't go through all this again."

There was silence as they stared at each other, air hot and hearts beating.

Kurt took a breath before whispering, "But don't you see, Blaine? You say you can't go through it again, but you're still reeling from what happened to Orrin. You are _still_ going through it, again and again and again. You just don't realise it."

"Well there's nothing I can do about that, I'm afraid," Blaine snapped. "I can't just wipe a bit of concealer all over my brain to make it all go away. But there _are_ things I can do to stop it from happening again, and one of those things is not to wear a fucking _kilt_."

Kurt swallowed his irritation as he realised there was something deeper. "Tell me why I shouldn't wear the kilt."

"Because… Because I nearly died because people saw me kissing another boy. Because they _saw _me being gay."

"_Oh_," Kurt said, connecting the dots. He paused. "And that was…?"

Blaine looked straight at him.

"Yes, Kurt. That was my first kiss."

"Oh."

"I'm not trying to belittle what has happened to you because you could have been hurt or even _killed_ by Karofsky and that's awful and they've all bullied you constantly, since, like, _forever_. But I'm just saying that often you don't really appreciate the risks until you _see_ them. And Orrin and I, we made that mistake, you know."

Kurt gulped and nodded.

"I'm still going to wear the kilt," he said levelly. "I honestly don't think anyone will be surprised, and I don't have anything else to wear. I'm sorry. But I promise we'll be careful and we won't do anything that will attract attention to ourselves. And we can go home the second you say so, and we'll take my car so we can leave whenever we want."

Blaine swallowed. "Okay," he said, still terrified. He was being an idiot, he knew it, an idiot blinded by love. But… Kurt wanted to go. And yeah, McKinley _was_ safer than Westerville East had been, especially now Karofsky was a bully whip. The danger was still there, though: it lurked in every twisted upper lip, every scornful glance, every flinch in the corridor. And who knew what those could turn into?

Still silence.

"I'm sorry I raised my voice," Kurt eventually said as he reached for his dress shirt and put it on.

"Me too," Blaine replied, digging into the cupboard. "I'm just _really _scared. And, um, angry."

Kurt nodded. "Me too. Now I am, anyway."

They dressed in silence, hardly even looking each other. The moment just didn't seem right. But it seemed to do them good. At least they felt comfortable with each other again.

And when Blaine did eventually look, Kurt was completely dressed. And he did look amazing. He did. Even in a kilt.

But Blaine was still terrified.

Kurt just stared at Blaine, looking him up down up down up. "That tux… that tux looks _really _good on you," he eventually murmured.

Blaine smiled as best he could. "Thank you, Kurt."

Comfortable silence.

"But it's missing something."

Kurt smiled as he opened a drawer and brought out a small box.

"Our corsages. Close your eyes."

Blaine did. He felt Kurt's fingers skimming over the left side of his chest, fingering his lapels until a new weight was left there. And then he felt a hand run over his shirt and down his chest and his breath hitched. And then it was gone.

"Now you can look," Kurt whispered, his voice tender and soft.

Blaine looked down.

It was a pink carnation.

A matching one sat on Kurt's jacket.

"It's really pretty," Blaine whispered. "Thank you."

"Do you know what it means, Blaine?"

Blaine shook his head.

"It means 'never forget'. Because, you know, we won't forget him. Not ever."

Blaine felt his eyes prickle again. Oh god he was a mess. He looked into Kurt's eyes.

"Oh Blaine," Kurt said, "When I said you had to move on, you didn't think I meant that you should _forget_ about him, did you?"

Blaine shook his head, even though the ideas of letting go and forgetting _were _intrinsically caught up with each other in his head. Because letting go might mean letting go of the good stuff too and he couldn't do that… ever. Orrin was far too important to him.

"I still miss my mom," Kurt said, breaking Blaine's train of thought. "I still love her and miss her every day. But I've accepted that she's not here and there's nothing I can do about it, and yeah, that sucks. Obviously, your circumstance is different as I knew… I knew my mom was dying whereas it was all very sudden for you, but you still have to come to terms with it, Blaine. You can't let it take over your whole life. It's not disrespectful to Orrin's memory if you enjoy yourself. To be blunt, if you had died, would you have wanted him to spend his whole life regretting the fact he didn't die too?"

Blaine shook his head. "But it still feels wrong," he whispered.

"I know," Kurt said. "But it's worse if you waste your life and don't go after what _you _really want. And if none of this had happened, would you have wanted to go to prom with me?"

"Of course," Blaine whispered.

"So, let's go," Kurt said, offering his arm.

And despite everything that screamed at him not to, Blaine took it.

* * *

><p>As it turned out, they <em>were<em> bullied and they _were_ laughed at and people _did_ stare at them in disgust. But as Kurt pointed out as they lay safe in bed together after making out, it was the school's loss, not theirs. Yes, it had hurt to have Kurt coronated prom queen, and yes it was wrong that he'd been manipulated into a dance between him and his bully. But in the end, the bullying had backfired: everyone in junior year had had to watch two gay boys care for each other in a way they could only dream of, they had to allow Kurt and Blaine to have their picture taken just like any other couple, and they had to surrender their crown and sceptre to someone who they didn't really want to have it but who totally, totally deserved it once all its connotations were removed.

And then they had to watch two people dance together as king and king of the school, because the bullying had failed on both of them; both of them were brave, both of them were strong and both of them were deeply, deeply in love. And there wasn't anything anyone could do about it. Because if anyone objected to it being 'in their face', they only had themselves to blame.

And they could all suck it.

"I'm sorry we fought," Kurt said as they began to drift off to sleep. They both knew Blaine would have to move to the guest room soon, and Kurt was clinging onto his warmth for as long as possible.

"Needed to be said," Blaine murmured into his shoulder.

Kurt cuddled him closer. "Yeah but I shouldn't have shouted at you."

"I shouldn't have shouted at you either."

"Sorry."

"Sorry."

Silence.

"We're really shit at fighting," Kurt eventually remarked.

Blaine laughed. "Yeah, we totally are."

"Let's not practise it, though, huh? It was horrible."

"Yeah."

"Do you know any words other than 'yeah'?"

Blaine frowned for a bit and then shook his head to avoid saying 'no'.

"Damn," Kurt said, "Even when you're tired and uncommunicative you're still damn smart. You're so annoying."

"Sorry," Blaine grinned, snuggling yet closer.

Kurt groaned as he reluctantly pushed him away. "You'd better go into the other room, otherwise my dad will think we're getting kinky in true prom tradition when in fact we're just being revoltingly cute."

Blaine barked out a laugh. "No, no kinkiness. We'll be pure and innocent and virtuous for a while yet, huh?"

"You're ridiculous," Kurt snorted, bringing Blaine in for one last cuddle.

And after they'd broken apart, Blaine lifted himself off the bed and pressed a kiss to his boyfriend's forehead. "See you tomorrow," he said softly.

"Night."

And yeah, they were safe. And they were happy. And they had won, even if only for a day.

Oh, right, and they were totally, totally crazy in love with each other.

Even if neither of them had said it yet.

* * *

><p><strong>AN Hey everyone, an update after only eight days! Yay! I'm in danger of updating, dare I say it, regularly? What has happened to me? **

**I hope you don't mind that they fought. I thought it was strange in the ep how Blaine was like 'ARGH kilt' and then nothing more was said. I don't think it was a big fight, just what happens when they _don't _communicate and don't listen to each other. They're learning :) and they're flirting… All change.**

**ANYWAY, news on my next multichapter, as promised. SOOOOooooOOOooo… This is what will happen. There are probably about four chapters of A Parade of Elephants left. I know I said this before but I was deeply wrong, mainly because I am a verbose idiot. I so far have six chapters of my next story ready to go. When A Parade of Elephants reaches 280 reviews, I am going to release the first chapter of the new story - I think that will just about coincide with the time I'll be winding APOE up. This may seem a bit review-hungry, but please know that I don't write to accumulate reviews, I write because I love it. I do, however, need to hear your feedback so I can improve, and although a lot of people are subscribing and favouriting, relatively few are actually reviewing. Though I am always super excited to hear from the amazing people who review almost every chapter, I want to hear from the lurkers as well, even if you go on anon. I'm so, so happy you're reading and (I hope) enjoying, and I really value you all and want to hear everything you have to say – even if it's constructive criticism or your thoughts regarding a previous chapter!**

**So here are some deets about the next story. 1) It's called 'The View from Nowhere'. 2) It's an AU. 3) Blaine is completely different from APOE Blaine but still hurting in his own way. 4) Same with Kurt. 5) You will get a good knowledge of the geography of the Midwest (this is a clue rather than an invitation to a boring geography lesson- though geography RULEZZZ). 6) It's how things _could_ have been. 7) The chapters are snappier. 8) It is rated M but will not be explicitly violent or sexual, though it is more sexual than APOE. 9) I hope you like it!**

**You will also notice that A Parade of Elephants now has a front cover! It was made by the wonderful Zaf (heliotropelied on ffnet, coulphil on tumblr), and I just love it. A larger version can be found on my tumblr. Thanks so much Zaf!  
><strong>

**So, long A/N but there was a lot to cover. Thanks for reading, I really am so grateful to every person who's had the patience to get this far, even if you're a lurker! Thank you so much for supporting my story and I hope you're satisfied as it begins to wind up :D Next chapter is the beginning of the end :(** **Man, I'll miss writing this so much. Love xxx**


	31. A Bite at a Time

**Chapter 31: A Bite at a Time**

_Q: How do you eat an elephant?_

_A: A bite at a time._

_- Entry in a (probably apocryphal) quotations website_

* * *

><p>Time has a frustrating habit of speeding up when you have greatest need to grasp on to its every second, and slowing down when you're stuck in class or on a plane or with someone who wants to tell you all about their collection of rare Furbies. And it was true: Blaine had been fiendishly busy with the Choir Games rehearsals and exams and classes but still the days had dragged on and on, yet now, with his head resting against Kurt's legs as the rest of him sprawled out over the width of the family's best sofa, time had sped up faster than ever, each second slipping away like sand through an egg timer.<p>

He just wanted to hold on to every moment but still the minutes melted away, drip dripping their way through his fingers no matter how hard he tried to cradle them close to his chest to stop them from spilling from his grasp. He wanted Kurt to pick absentmindedly at his hair forever, he wanted the episode of Project Runway to last five hours (though two would still be enough), and… yeah, he really didn't want to have to leave Kurt behind.

But in about sixty hours, thirty six minutes and forty seconds, he'd be 6672.946 miles away.

He'd checked.

And had kept on checking, all through the hours when he and Kurt were packing his suitcase, cooking dinner, playing on the wii. Every hour that passed seemed to go more quickly than the last.

And because of times and dates and stupid choirs in stupid cities, Kurt's flight to New York would be leaving three hours and forty six minutes before Blaine's flight from Beijing would be touching down. And that meant he'd be away from Kurt for two. whole. weeks. It seemed an imponderably long time to be apart.

He closed his eyes and shuffled up closer to his boyfriend, trying to savour the time he had left in this otherwise empty house. He felt like he was on death row or something, counting down the hours to oblivion. It was pathetic and ridiculous but he knew he'd miss Kurt more than anything, even though he knew in his bones that this was the opportunity of a lifetime. He ran through all the people he'd be meeting, all the music he'd be hearing, the amazing culture he'd be experiencing, hoping that _something_ would make him feel buzzed. But it fell a bit flat. All because Kurt wouldn't be there with him.

"You're panicking about it, aren't you?"

Kurt's voice was level and flat as it layered itself on top of the dramatic elimination music that was blasting from the TV. Blaine felt the hand on his head move a bit: it would have been more soothing had he not been freaking out about Kurt getting all the gel out and witnessing the true horror of the fro, but it was relaxing all the same.

And then he thought a bit.

"I think I'm a bit scared," he eventually agreed. "New everything, not really prepared for it in any way, yada yada yada."

Kurt scoffed. "Blaine, don't talk to me about lack of preparation. The New Directions haven't even come up with a setlist yet, mainly because the songs that will feature on it haven't even been written. Mr Schue is being horrifyingly blasé about the whole thing. Makes me miss you being in charge, the evil taskmaster." He nudged Blaine playfully as he paused. "And I'm sort of worried, you know, that New York won't be how I imagined it. That I've pinned all my hopes on something that was a fantasy all along."

"You're made for New York," Blaine sighed, watching as Kurt's back straightened a bit at his words. "Me, China, not so much."

"Mmmm."

They sat there for a while, Kurt's fingertips resting on the side of Blaine's face.

"Just… promise me you'll be careful…" he began again. "I know you're _always _careful. I don't know… just enjoy it, just try to –"

Blaine tried to suppress all the fears that had been nagging at him for the past few weeks. All the 'what ifs' and uncertainties and separation anxiety and fear of the unknown.

And then it just slipped out.

"I'm going to try to graduate a year early."

Blaine felt Kurt shift as he sat impossibly straighter. A barrage of curses accumulated in his head, pressing at his skull as they fought one another to escape. Why didn't he have a filter? Why had he –

"Blaine," Kurt said quietly as he softly removed his hand, "Is this… is this a discussion or a statement?"

"Um… a… discussion?"

"So nothing's set in stone?"

Blaine shook his head. "I mean, I talked to the principal and he said I'm capable of graduating at the end of next year with actually quite minimal effort…"

"But you love Dalton."

"I do."

"Well why do you want it to be over?"

Blaine shrugged.

_Lonely. Bored. No Kurt.  
><em>

Silence.

"Blaine, I'm going to be really honest with you. I think you should think _really _carefully about this. Because although I have absolutely no doubt that you have the academic capability to graduate _this _year if you really worked hard, there are, you know… _other _implications of early graduation."

Blaine racked his brains, suddenly feeling a million years younger than his boyfriend.

"… Like, you know, having to live in an unfamiliar city when you go to college, probably all by yourself first year. You have to look after yourself, wash your dishes, cook your food, do your laundry, pay your bills… make new friends."

Blaine's stomach tightened as Kurt continued.

"And you've got to think really carefully, Blaine, I mean it. Because no matter how smart you are, you've got to be emotionally ready too. And you may well _be_ ready, especially in a year, but I do think you should seek some kind of… um, professional opinion here. Like, a psychiatrist."

He whispered that last part.

"I'm not fragile, Kurt. I can look after myself."

Kurt raised a doubtful eyebrow.

"Fine," Blaine eventually huffed, "I'll think about it."

"Good," Kurt said. "And for what it's worth, I think the Choir is going to do well in Beijing. Because they've got _you _in charge."

"What, their crazy choirmaster who's scared of going to Asia even though he is himself half Asian?" Blaine mumbled.

Kurt stroked his shoulders, considering his words. "Blaine, to put it frankly, you're a gay American sixteen year old who got badly beaten up two years ago. It's okay to be nervous about jetting off to the other side of the world."

Blaine gulped, looking up into Kurt's eyes. Kurt stared back.

"You're going to do really well, I know it."

Blaine smiled a bit, mostly trying to forget about it. "Kiss me."

And then Kurt grinned as Blaine sat up a bit and then they didn't really talk for a while.

And then, after more conversation and a mug of warm milk and some more kissing and wishful hands over shirts and backs and shoulders, they said "See ya" and a door was closed.

Because it was so much easier than saying goodbye.

* * *

><p>Blaine didn't have the same feelings when he said goodbye to his parents at the airport a day later. He gave his mom a quick kiss on the cheek and told her not to worry, and she cried. Weird. Sure, he'd miss her, but it was nothing like the worry of going to China or not seeing Kurt or forgetting his adapter socket.<p>

And then his dad stretched his hand out for Blaine to shake, and then used it to pull him in for what became a really quite awkward hug. Obviously. Things would always be awkward, it was like their thing now.

And then, after a barely perceptible "I'm proud of you son" was breathed across his ear, Blaine headed off to the departure gate with the other Warblers and their four teacher chaperones. And that was that.

And less than an hour later the plane was hurtling down the runway, and then up up up away through a fluffy white ceiling which soon became a fluffy white floor, a barrier between Blaine and Kurt, the symbol of their two week separation, a visible partition that would soon condense into teary drips of rain and –

Blaine sighed and sat back in his first class seat, deciding that he should probably stop being so ridiculously mawkish.

And then he sipped some complimentary lemonade.

And then he ate some chips and sighed when he had nothing to use to wipe the chipdust off his hands.

And then he plugged his iPod in, smearing greasy chipfat over the screen.

And then he closed his eyes.

And then he concluded that he was definitely, certainly, verifiably and impossibly head over heels in love with a certain Kurt Hummel.

And that he should probably tell him so.

Maybe.

* * *

><p>The flight didn't actually take too long and they landed in Newark before Blaine had had the chance to really get settled in his seat, spacious and luxurious and comfortable though it was. As they got off the plane and headed into the terminal, he couldn't help but think that Kurt would be making a practically identical journey in a week's time, walking up a gangway just like this right before he set eyes on New York for the very first time. Blaine wished he'd be there to share it, even though he'd already decided that the City wasn't really for him. Maybe.<p>

And then they were walking through Newark, through passport control, onto the tarmac and up the stairs, and then he'd truly left American soil. And then the plane took off and he was soaring off towards Asia, looking down on Canada and then the Arctic Circle, right by the North Pole, and then Russia and then Mongolia.

And then they arrived in Beijing, just like that, at eight in the evening. Lights twinkled, he could have been anywhere.

But once he'd cleared the generic airportishness, Blaine started to notice things. Like the air, it was different somehow. And the noise, the sounds, they were different too. And the main hall was full of shining lights and statues and everything was so very _Eastern_ and busy and foreign.

And exhilarating.

Trent was blinking like he couldn't believe his eyes and David was, for once, lost for words. The other Warblers looked tired but excited, and Mr Plum the Kenny's teacher appeared to have wilted from hours of attending to his trebles who, apparently, had all been incredibly fascinated by the onboard toilet.

And Peter was just standing there on his own, dwarfed by his giant green suitcase as he gazed up at the red struts that held up the enormous glass wall of the entrance hall with a completely dazed expression on his face.

He looked how Blaine felt.

So he walked over to him.

"Hey dude," he said, putting his hands on Peter's shoulders.

Peter jumped, and then recovered. He smiled widely. "Hi Blaine."

"Excited?"

"Scared."

"Me too."

And then they gaped up at the airport together.

And then Mr Hsu arrived with his silver minivan to take them to their hotel. Beijing rushed by, lights and sounds and unfamiliar letters and poor people and rich people and in-between people, and probably-straight people and probably-gay people, and happy people and sad people and apathetic people. People.

And then they arrived at the Grand Hyatt with its Western glass façade and somewhat tragic rainforest-themed pool and Blaine sighed a bit because, he realised, he could be anywhere in the world. He was in China, _China_, but if it weren't for the unfamiliarly delicious smell emanating from the poolside barbeque, he'd have thought he was right back in Columbus.

And that was pretty much how he felt the whole week. The blur in the windows was all glass and steel, everything West West West in every way except there was no Kurt or stars or stripes or Hot Pockets.

The choir sang and got put through to the next round.

And then they went to the Forbidden City and Tiananmen Square but not to the botanic gardens.

And then they sang again, this time in front of a large but quiet audience that punctuated the silences with the patter of polite applause.

And then again. An even bigger audience. And it was televised.

And Blaine honestly felt like he was going to be sick every single second.

And then the results came in and they were standing on the stage with the choir of York Minster, two American college choirs and a gay men's chorus from New Zealand.

And they came fourth. FOURTH. IN THE WORLD. Blaine could barely believe it and everyone patted him on the back as they smiled because they were all so happy.

And everyone in the room knew who Blaine was, this kid who ran the choir that had beaten so many professional outfits who had paid their directors thousands in the hope of a top ten position at these Games. And some people from New York and some more from LA and one from Buenos Aires took down his contact details, and a nice old Korean lady told him that he should be in the movies in Hollywood one day.

And then they'd had a party back at the hotel. There was no alcohol, but they were totally drunk on life.

And then they had a bleary day of mingling and photos, and then a clearer day in a Chinese school where the girls' choir sang a perfect but kind of heartless rendition of 'My Bonnie Lies Over The Ocean'.

And Blaine sighed because like everything and nothing in this crazy unfamiliarly familiar city, it reminded him of Kurt.

But he was still bouncing around like some kind of caffeinated Tigger, fourth fourth fourth fourth. And people were always interested in him, and they were speaking to him like he was a completely normal person with no baggage or crazy behaviour or cowardly fears. Because they didn't know what had happened.

At every juncture, he wished Kurt was there with him. He wanted everyone here to know how he could do it, he wanted them to meet the person who had encouraged him to rise up and accomplish this. He had no doubt about it, he was one half of a whole now; each step away from Ohio took half a bite from him and half a bite from Kurt. Was that clingy? Or love? Probably a bit of both… But anyway, he had to party. He wasn't scared.

And then, before he knew it, they were flying back home.

Just like that.

A year's work over in the blink of an eye.

And then, of course, Kurt was flying out. Their airplanes probably passed somewhere between the clouds, big floating ships passing in the night. Another week apart.

* * *

><p>It was mid-morning when Blaine finally got home. He was shockingly alone in Westerville OH in his empty house on his empty commuter street trying to process this amazing dream that was <em>real<em> and they'd come fourth and there'd be school assemblies and emails and people wanting to know _how he did it_.

And, as the week went on, he realised he was right: it _was_ like that. It was exciting and amazing and he was so happy and bouncy and felt like a rockstar but he was… Kurtless.

And then on Wednesday, five days later when it was starting to die down, he missed school and went into Columbus with his mom for two interviews.

One was with a start-up classical music magazine for young people with a vacuous posh girl who called herself Zaggie. Blaine thought she desperately needed to get a life.

And then there was the one with a psychiatrist, Dr. Linton. His office was big and decked out in leather so he must be good at his job, Blaine thought; he must get his diagnoses right.

The man, in his mid-thirties with coal black hair and pale blue eyes, sauntered into the room three minutes later. Five minutes late.

And they spoke for a bit about what happened and then Blaine's mom said how she'd noticed Blaine change after the incident and then Blaine said he was _fine now _and was only here because his boyfriend thought it'd be a good idea.

And then Dr. Linton told him he might, you know, need some kind of psychotherapy or drugs or something because _although he is functioning well, Mrs Anderson, very well under the circumstances, we mustn't forget that academic success does not necessarily correlate to having an independent spirit._

Blah blah blah blah.

Blaine tried to fast forward him onto the bit that mattered.

_So, in my professional opinion Mrs Anderson, early graduation would not be a good option for him at this present moment._

_Not a good option._

_Not… good… him._

He'd failed all over again. All because he wasn't grown up.

He didn't know why he'd expected any less.

And he didn't feel quite so happy any more, not when he knew that there was something lurking inside of him that no one could see, not even if they opened his head and had a good poke around. It was an invisible something, a thing that had been woven right into his brain cells on that fateful night, which in Dr Linton's words could very well have _disabled him in ways we cannot realise, Mrs Anderson. _

_He may very well be a danger to himself one day, Mrs Anderson.  
><em>

_I'm sure you'll agree, Mrs Anderson, that t__herapy is the only viable course of action here. It goes without saying that he'll...  
><em>

_Therapy... very reasonable rates... reasonable... help... investment on something that might very well **save his life**.  
><em>

* * *

><p>Blaine decided not to mention the visit to Kurt for now. Instead he watched as his boyfriend sat opposite him in the Lima Bean, bubbling over and over with happiness and joy and delight. The City was everything he'd thought it'd be and more, he'd said, and he'd got to sing on the Wicked stage and perform at Nationals (even though Finn and Rachel had kind of spoiled it) and fly in an airplane for the very first time.<p>

And then

"I love you"

Out of the blue.

Somehow he didn't even care that he'd finally let it out. Because it was true. And if Kurt wasn't ready to say it back, then that would be fine. Because he felt it from him all the time anyway.

It'd be fine.

Fine.

Fine.

Fine.

"I love you too."

Blaine's heart leapt as he tried to remain composed. This was not fine. This was amazing. And Kurt _did _love him back.

And when you love someone, you don't care about their flaws.

Just hearing that made him happy again. Kurt had that freakish power over him.

And then Sam and Mercedes came and they were so obviously together and that was good because Mercedes deserved someone. And then they discussed Blaine's audition for a while and he was so chirpy he was almost crazy with it all: the reunion hug, Kurt's excitement, Mercedes's happiness, Six Fla –

His mouth dropped open and he stared at Kurt. _Really _stared. He couldn't help it.

"What's wrong, Blaine?" Kurt eventually said, "Oh dear God, do I have a zit?"

"No no no no. It's nothing."

Kurt peered at him and narrowed his eyes. "There is something."

"No there's not. Just tired."

But there was something. Because Kurt was all grown up, getting taller by the day. His hair was perfect, his jaw was sharp and he looked every bit the New Yorker he was bound to become. He wasn't someone who needed saving. At all.

And Blaine felt like a stupid child, young and stupid and innocent and naïve, practically quaking in his boots that this _young man _had just told him he was in love with him.

"Of course!" Kurt exclaimed, practically knocking Blaine sideways, "No wonder you're upset! I haven't even properly asked about Beijing. Tell me everything!"

"It was New York, but Chinese," Blaine murmured.

Kurt's face lit up. "So good, then?"

"I don't know. It just wasn't how I'd expected it to be, you know. And when things don't turn out like you expect, you just sorta don't know what to think. Obviously I'm delighted with the result but, but… yeah."

"It didn't play out as you'd thought?"

"No."

"But a lot of things are like that, aren't they? Mostly it works out for the best."

"Maybe."

Silence. Blaine wished he could be more talkative.

But after it became clear his wishes wouldn't be coming true today, Kurt carried on as if they'd been talking all along, stitching up the rags of the conversation until it flowed cohesively once again.

"Anyway, I forgot to tell you about the _pizza_. Oh my god, Blaine, the pizzaaa. I had pepperoni and pepper and cheese and, yes, bad for my skin I know but you know what I'm like with _good quality _junk food, I'm unstoppable. Anyway, I'll take you there one day, you can meet Luigi the chef and we can have spaghetti like in Lady and the Tramp and –"

"I went to a shrink."

Kurt swallowed his coffee down with his conversation, his eyes fixing right on Blaine's.

"And?"

"Um, I'm apparently not 'emotionally ready' for college, and could not withstand the academic rigour needed to get me there."

Kurt sighed. "And does this surprise you?"

Blaine fiddled with the napkin.

"No. I mean… Not really."

"Well then…" He left his sentence incomplete.

Blaine looked up at him. "Do you think I'm young for my age?" He chewed his lip. "Does it bother you that I'm a year younger than you?"

"_No _to both, dummy. What's a year? And when I first met you, I was so sure you were a senior, seriously. You're just so comfortable with yourself."

Blaine scoffed. But Kurt continued.

"You _are_."

"The psychiatrist said I lack an 'independent spirit'."

"Well he's talking bullshit: that's not your problem. Your problem right now is that you need a new psychiatrist. Among other things."

Blaine smiled a bit, stirring his coffee as he summoned the courage to continue the conversation, even though there was only about a centimetre depth of coffee remaining in the cup.

"What _are _my problems, then, Mr Freud?" he said uncomfortably, the half-joke coming over as a horrible non-sequitur after the silence.

But Kurt just took his hands over the table and stared at him, not letting him escape into humour. "You just need to understand this, Blaine: your problem is not you. It's what's happened to you. You just need someone who doesn't know you and who won't judge you who'll let you talk it all out. And you _certainly _don't need your mom in the room."

"How did you know she was there?"

Kurt smiled.

"Just a hunch. Anyway, think about it."

They stood up, straightening their clothes.

"Shall we go to Between the Sheets now?" Kurt asked.

Blaine smiled, winking naughtily. "I knew you only loved me conditionally."

"Ha. Ha. Ha." Kurt drawled, smiling all the same. "I meant the shop, silly."

"Damn."

"Yeah…" His eyes fell to the tarmac. "Umm, I love you though, no matter what you do or say or… think about yourself. It's good to be able to say it, finally."

Blaine felt warm inside. "Love you too."

They walked to the car in silence, fingers unconsciously seeking out fingers as their shirtsleeves brushed together.

"You know," Kurt began as he climbed into the driver's seat, "I never really thought about you being a year younger than me. I guess… I guess a year from now will really suck."

And man, it would.

It really would.

And at that moment, Blaine Anderson set his heart on graduating from Dalton 368 days before everyone else his age. It'd be difficult, he knew it, but he was pretty sure he could do it.

Smiling, he climbed into the car next to Kurt. He didn't really care what anyone thought any more, he decided. No one mattered, no one except him and Kurt and the spotty girl who was about to serve them two much-needed Triple Hot 'n' Juicy burgers at the drive-thru.

"Hot and juicy," Kurt would say later as he bit into the fatty meat, "Just like us."

And yeah, Blaine Anderson had pretty much landed himself the perfect boyfriend.

Who trusted him with everything. Including his secret love of Wendy's.

And who just so happened to love him back.

* * *

><p><strong>Hey guys, sorry if this is bad, I just wanted to post something so you didn't hate me. I am working 11 hour days and I spend 3 hours every day commuting and I have a serious pest control issue in my flat (due to unhygienic neighbours), so I don't really have much time or energy. Sorry for my uselessness, normal service will resume when my company stops thinking I'm their personal admin slave and rats mice/ ants all GTFO of my life and stop thinking my house is some kind of ark to protect them from the rainy British summer :( **

**Anyway, I am now only 15 reviews away from posting my new story. Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed: I loved hearing from all of you, especially the lurkers! Again, sorry if this is sub-par but I've spent few hours I've had free trying to write it and this is the best I can do right now. There are now two chapters left, both of which I have clear ideas for, so keep holding on for those. I promise they will come sooner than this one has. I'm so very grateful for your continued support, especially to Laure and EvvieJo who are both translating APOE (into French and Polish respectively, no less). This is truly amazing and I am so honoured that they have taken up this elephantine (hoho) task. Look on my 'APOE Bonus Material' tab on tumblr if you would like to read some international APOE (or hear it read!).**

**Lastly, I am in the process of creating an e-reader edition of APOE that could be downloaded from something like GoogleDocs (for free, obv). If anyone has experience of doing this, please do get in touch. I am fascinated by the potential of electronic books and would be keen to hear from anyone with any kind of expertise in this area!**

**See ya later alligators. Hope your life is fun and pest-free :D wheeeeee.**

**(I am hyper out of sheer exhaustion. YAY.)**

**Next chapter will be coming sooner than this one as I already have a really firm idea of what it will be like in my head.**


	32. Joy of the Night

**Chapter 32: Joy of the Night**

_Not too near and not too far  
>Out of the stress of the crowd<br>Music screams as elephants scream  
>When they lift their trunks and scream aloud<br>For joy of the night when masters are  
>Asleep and adream.<em>

_- Hyde Park at Night: Clerks, _D.H. Lawrence

* * *

><p>Summer surprised them. It wasn't as if it was totally unexpected; they'd been alive more than long enough to know that the greening leaves and rising temperatures meant that the vacation was on its way. But sometimes you become so engrossed in things, like interviews and smiling for newspaper pictures and kissing your boyfriend, that you really don't want to think about any of it ending.<p>

The last day came anyway.

Blaine asked Kurt come to Dalton. McKinley had already broken up for the summer, so it made sense that Kurt would have to help Blaine sort out the final choir rehearsal of the year. Mostly they ended up making out in the locked music store, backs against the leather-bound manuscript books, right up until the other Warblers arrived. The last rehearsal/ recording session usually ended up becoming a party anyway, so no one really noticed that the cupboard was still a mess or that Kurt and Blaine's hair was just that little bit out of place.

As per tradition, the Warblers sang their favourite tunes along with the songs they hadn't managed to fit into their concert schedule that year. They recorded it all with equipment they hired in, and microphones and wires and lights now littered their way across the chapel floor. The CDs they eventually sold to the parents always had a crazy set list, and this time was no different: 'What Kind of Fool' followed an intricate choral arrangement of 'Agnus Dei', and then they recorded 'Hey Soul Sister' and 'Teenage Dream' and 'Raise Your Glass' and the Allegri Miserere just for the fun of it. It was all pretty cool, and Blaine's heart swelled when he heard Kurt's voice twining in with the other boys once again when they recorded some of the old numbers.

And then the trebles from Saint Kentigern showed up. Blaine watched as nine of them (and Wes) greedily stuffed their faces full of the meringues and mini fruit tartlets the Dalton kitchens had made earlier that day. With his hand in Kurt's, Blaine looked up and around the chapel, watching the blue light from the windows dance over the choir stalls. It looked like it was some kind of medieval disco.

And then he felt his blazer sleeve being tugged from behind. His hand automatically slipped from Kurt's as he turned around to see Peter grinning up at him.

"Hey Blaine."

Kurt whipped around too, looking down at the source of the voice.

And Peter stared back. Stared. Mouth open.

Blaine empathised. Kurt, who was dressed in a white dress shirt, grey fitted waistcoat, skinny black jeans and silver ankle boots did look particularly, well, hot. He smiled down at Peter.

"Peter, this is Kurt. Kurt, this is Peter."

Kurt held out a gracious hand for Peter to shake.

"Ready to sing later, Peter?" Kurt asked. "Blaine says you've got a beautiful voice. You're my very worthy replacement, apparently. Though I do not see how that would be possible."

Blaine laughed.

"Yeah, I'm… um, yeah… ready to sing," Peter managed.

"Great," said Kurt, smiling widely, "I can't wait to hear you."

Peter grinned back, hanging back awkwardly.

"Anything else?" Blaine asked.

"Yeah… yeah, umm, I was… no… my _mom_ was wondering if you give voice lessons?"

Blaine smiled. "Sure. I mean, no, but I could. I have like a weekly stint at Six Flags so I can't do Thursdays, but other than that I'm free. So's Kurt, he's writing the book and lyrics for a musical though. And I'm writing the score for it. Anyway, the quick answer is yes, sure. Come on, we'd better go."

And then Blaine gave Kurt a quick kiss on the cheek as he moved off to sing one last time. Sing, not conduct. Mr. Plum, after much encouragement, had agreed to do it. It was a special piece the choir had been practising for this final occasion, mastered just too late for Beijing. 'Sicut cervus desiderat' was highly complex and as Blaine felt the choir surge from behind and around him, he knew he could do it. This type of choir, this type of music, this was what he could do. This was happiness.

And one treble in particular had an amazing, amazing voice. It needed honing and training, but it would be spectacular. Blaine was sure of it.

* * *

><p>So that was how a certain Peter Gabriel Clarke walked into Kurt and Blaine's summer vacation. Kurt came round practically every day, his glittery pen poised between his fingers as he wrote his musical act by act, scene by scene, lyric by lyric. Blaine and Peter would watch him through the window from behind the grand piano, laughing as he'd frustratedly run his fingers through his hair whenever he couldn't get the wording quite right.<p>

"Kurt is very handsome," Peter would murmur. He never came out, he just said stuff. And that was how Kurt and Blaine knew. It was progress, Blaine thought.

And they sung and messed around and Peter asked them questions and watched them and laughed with them whenever he was at Blaine's for a lesson.

And when he wasn't there, Kurt and Blaine would cuddle and make out and then Kurt would sigh at Blaine's wardrobe before kissing him some more. They ended up throwing out most of the old items and buying new ones in a single mall haul. Blaine was pretty sure the new cut-off trousers and jumpers and bow ties he'd always wanted but had never bought screamed GAY to the world. Somehow, though, he no longer worried so much.

And so the days drifted on and on, lazy days amalgamating into a long stretch of time that was only punctuated by Peter's visits and their Thursday trips to Six Flags.

The summer was a carpet being snatched from right beneath their feet.

* * *

><p>"Umm, Blaine?" Kurt said the week before Dalton started up again, right as they were hurtling down the highway on their way back from Six Flags. Yet again.<p>

Blaine turned slightly, watching as Kurt's skin lit up under the summer sun.

"Mmmm?"

"Yesterday, when you were in the bathroom, Peter asked me how… you know, two men have, um, sex."

"Damn," Blaine said, pouting a bit.

"Yeah, I know…"

"Nooo, I mean I'm really upset he didn't ask_ me_. He knew me first, why didn't he ask me?"

Kurt shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows the ways of that strange kid…"

"And what did you say?"

At that, Kurt turned right round in his seat and looked straight at Blaine. "Don't laugh. Promise you won't laugh."

"Promise… sorta," Blaine said.

"I got like really flustered so I ended up telling him… that I didn't know."

Blaine barked out a laugh before he could stop himself. "Sorry, sorry, oh my god, sorry, that's just..." He sobered for a second. "Wait, you did read those pamphlets, right?"

"_Yes_ Blaine, I did," Kurt replied tersely.

"Then why didn't you tell him?"

"I don't know, he just surprised me."

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about. Sure, I mean, it'd be _awkward_, but I figure no one at home is gonna tell him that stuff."

Kurt fiddled with the seat belt as more Ohio sped by. And Blaine came to the sudden realisation that this conversation was about to run a hell of a lot deeper.

"What are you thinking?" he asked softly.

Kurt stared fixedly at the road in front of them and Blaine did the same. Sometimes his boyfriend didn't like eye contact.

"I read all the stuff, I honestly did."

"I know you did… well, I obviously _don't _know but you told me you did so I believe you," Blaine stumbled.

"Yes, well. So, like, it's not so much of a mystery or anything… it's just, I have one question."

Blaine felt himself blushing. Anyone else and it wouldn't have been a problem at all, but _Kurt_. It just seemed a bit… specific.

Kurt took a breath. "What do you think constitutes a 'first time'?"

Blaine shrugged, trying desperately to remain nonchalant. "Blowjobs, I guess… What do you think?"

He saw Kurt grow impossibly redder in the passenger seat. "Same," he said hurriedly.

"Really? Don't just say that cuz I said it."

Kurt twisted in on himself with discomfort, causing Blaine to question why he'd even brought this up in the first place.

"I don't know," Kurt said, "I guess… I'm maybe more of a traditionalist."

"What?"

"Um, going… all the way. It's a bit more… definite. You know where you stand."

Blaine blushed. "Oh. Okay."

A pause.

"Canwegeticecreamnow?"

"Sure!" Blaine said suddenly and overeagerly, "SURE THING! Man, I could murder some mint choc chip, mmmm mint choc chip."

And then they were tucking into ice cream on Westerville Main Street talking about music and jokes and the best ice cream flavour, and the little conversation wasn't mentioned again.

* * *

><p>They went back to school, first Blaine and then Kurt, both of them now in senior year. It was hard, Blaine realised, so hard. He never saw Kurt any more, maybe once a week. And even though he'd already taken a lot of difficult exams, they had all been in subjects he loved. AP German, not so much.<p>

The choirs were crazy. Most of the freshmen who'd come up into the glee club and the chapel choir needed extensive work, and even those who were accomplished enough to sight-read the music had voices that just blended into the background. Wes had graduated along with many of the others, and Blaine was left with two choirs that had had half their limbs cut off. It all just sounded dreadful.

Worse, he'd lost his trebles. It had been a mostly pre-emptive decision and it certainly hadn't been taken lightly, but Mr. Plum had warned that the boys had to prepare for the Dalton entrance exam so wouldn't have as much time on their hands. Blaine also knew that time was against him puberty-wise: no matter how good their voices were now, in a month, six months, a year at most, they'd be gone. Even Peter had stopped vocal lessons now, partly due to Blaine's packed schedule but mostly because his voice started to drop a week into eighth grade. He'd be a fine tenor in a year or so, Blaine knew, but for now it was pretty fruitless getting him to sing anything. They kept in touch on facebook.

He tried his best to work with what he had, putting in every spare hour in at the piano. He was grumpy and impatient but he couldn't help it, the guys were just _frustrating_. And his work piled up and piled up and he missed Kurt and the long drive to Lima just ate more time and –

"Why don't you just transfer? McKinley will be surprised if you even show up to the lesson, they seriously do not care. Just learn the material by yourself like I do and you'll be fine. And you can join the New Directions. With you, we're _bound _to win Nationals."

Blaine just shook his head each time Kurt mentioned it.

But with each day at Dalton, the stress became worse and worse and he didn't sleep and then he drafted Henry (a sophomore) in to help with the arrangements and he was _really_ _good_ at it. But different. Very different.

And the guys liked him more. Especially the new ones.

So, within a week, Blaine's end date was added to the book. He nearly cried as he watched Trent etch the six bulging leather-bound manuscript books with a final, decisive '2011', each permanently marking the end of his tenure.

And for the first time, Dalton was just a school. And the classes were just classes where he was average at best. And he never saw Kurt.

So two weeks later, he left.

Just like that.

His dad had objected and his mom had cried, fearing he'd get hurt again and that he couldn't handle it. They signed the papers anyway. They knew they couldn't stop him; this was his choice, and they respected him. He just has to promise he'd leave the second things got bad.

And now he'd have Kurt and Kurt's friends and a new glee club that didn't expect anything of him other than fun, poppy tunes that wouldn't require hours of slaving over manuscript paper. Hours he didn't have.

The Warblers got him a new baton and gave him a group hug right before he left for the final time. When he walked out through the gates two years before expected and one year before he'd hoped, something had definitely ended. It was sad and it was exciting, but, he reminded himself, the loss had already happened: this was just the result of it. And there was so much to be gained.

His uniform now hung limply in his closet; it was too raw, somehow, to throw it out quite yet. And McKinley was crazy and people didn't conform and Kurt chose all his clothes and they were amazing colours and styles and cuts that he'd always loved but never dared to wear. He and Kurt looked amazing together, they just did.

And because they were in a lot of the same classes, they could do homework together and go to class together and have lunch together and go to glee together. And make out together and kiss and hold hands and watch Snookie and the Situation.

And then they dressed up as Snookie and the Situation, first privately as a joke and then for Halloween as even more of a joke, right down to the make-up for Kurt and the little diamante clip-on studs for Blaine. It was hilarious.

And yeah, Finn turned out to be a jealous douche for a while and Rachel Berry annoyed him a lot, but he still got loads of solos. It was all good.

And then he got Tony.

_Tony_, Tony.

And everyone in the school suddenly knew who he was. He had an identity outside being the gay kid's boyfriend; he was _Blaine _again. People knew who he was.

And he loved, _loved_ McKinley.

Because, for what was probably the first time in his entire life, he was able to finally be himself. Bow ties and all. And he was so, so happy he had time to spend on being young, on learning all this stuff about people and Kurt and parties and fun. You can't learn everything from the pages of a textbook.

* * *

><p>And people challenged him. At Dalton, no one would comment on a new hairstyle or new swimming trunks or new shoes, mainly because no one was rude or nosy. Or if they were, they kept quiet.<p>

McKinley was not like that. At all. There, no one was afraid of asking personal questions.

"Hey, Anderson, what's with the hair?"

"Blaine, why don't you wear socks?"

"Dude, what's with that fat ass scar on your leg?"

"How can you be a swimmer and a boxer _and _gay?"

And then…

"Have either of you two actually… done it?"

And usually Blaine didn't care all that much, he just didn't: he'd been at this whole _being different_ game for so long now, first as a shy nerd and then as a shy gay nerd, that it just didn't faze him that he was now apparently even more in the minority as a gay _virgin_ shy nerd. He had more important things going on.

But that particular question on that particular day did stir something in him.

And not because Artie was judging him.

It just made him think a bit.

Did Kurt want to have sex with him? He seemed like he did, judging from… stuff. Blaine knew he definitely wanted to have sex with Kurt.

But when was the 'right time'?

Would he even know if it was the right time?

Was there even such a thing as The Right Time?

And how would he even _ask_? Like, how do you even start that conversation?

But as the rehearsals drew on and opening night approached, things just seemed to… change between them. First there were the questions Kurt asked while Blaine was dancing to Roxy Music and then there was the bucket list, each of which gave Blaine some idea of what Kurt actually wanted. Then there was Sebastian, who was kind of pathetic but who still managed to upset Kurt all the same. And then there was Scandals, where Blaine nearly fucked it all up in entirely the wrong way by getting drunk and attempting to convince Kurt that the back of his car would be a _great _place for them to lose their virginities.

There may not be a right time, he realised, but there certainly was a wrong time.

And yeah, Kurt had been extremely cross but Blaine was still thankful he'd stopped them. He knew it wouldn't have broken them, but it had still prevented a mistake that could have been a long-term regret for both of them.

At least they'd be careful now. Because this was something they both wanted to go right.

* * *

><p>And after that, despite everything, it had just sort of happened. Right after they opened West Side Story and right right after Blaine apologised.<p>

Blaine had sorta known it was going to happen at some point but not when, so even though he had an empty house, his room was a mess and he knew he didn't have any of the… stuff. Except lube, he had that.

Kurt dropped his car at home and then rang the doorbell, and then he told his dad he was going to Blaine's and that all the Andersons would be in. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

And then, after a brief and somewhat sketchy discussion through bit lips and red cheeks, they realised they needed to make a swift trip to the gas station to buy some stuff.

And then, after they got home, Blaine made Kurt get them drinks while he stuffed all the clothes on his floor into his hamper and lit some candles. And then he put Babar and Trunky and Heffalump away in the armoire so they wouldn't have to watch.

But it really wasn't too bad and soon they were lying on Blaine's bed, Blaine's hand on Kurt's wrist, waiting for one of them to muster up the confidence to make the first move. Blaine's stomach felt like it was in his feet because it was going to happen, here, tonight. And he didn't want to mess it up.

"We can't lie here forever," Kurt eventually said.

"Mmm sure we can," Blaine whispered, pulling Kurt closer.

Kurt snorted. "Blaine, when I said I wanted to go home with you, I wanted it to be slightly different from all the other times I've been here with you before."

Blaine smiled slightly, his eyelashes batting against his cheeks. Kurt looked incredible in the lamp light; he was sure he'd never seen anyone, or anything, more beautiful.

"What… um… what is it that you want to _do_, exactly?"

And then Kurt just looked right at him and smiled. "Well," he said, "I don't really intend to leave this bed a virgin… Sorry, that sounded awkward."

And they giggled nervously. "I have a feeling this whole thing is gonna be slightly awkward," Blaine said.

And then they were serious again as definitions were checked and things were worked out. Whispered promises in the half-darkness.

And Blaine made sure Kurt was sure and Kurt made sure Blaine was sure and then they fumblingly started kissing and feeling and touching. And giggling. And then Blaine let Kurt start taking off his watch and his necklace and his clothes, and then Kurt let Blaine do the same, and it was really all quite simple once they got past the initial awkwardness.

And fingers ran along skin and scars, trailing up sides, over hips and down backs with acceptance and love.

And afterwards, Blaine was pretty sure he'd had the best first time in the history of the world. And so, judging from his smile, was Kurt.

And they loved each other.

And that was that.

* * *

><p>But people have other first times too. First times that aren't so good.<p>

Like failure. Palpable, real, gut-burning failure rather than the self-hating kind Blaine was used to.

And it sucked.

Ironically, the final hit came at the hands of the very people who were supposed to be his friends. A leather jacket, a song, a dance and a laced slushie were all it took to put his early graduation off for good.

Even without the painful operation and the ridiculous eyepatch that stopped him from reading as quickly as he was used to, the whole early graduation thing had made no sense anyway; he knew Quinn, he knew what kind of ability he needed to have, and worst of all, he knew he didn't have it. He didn't stand a chance at Yale. Or Columbia. Right, he'd told Kurt he was okay with Columbia…

And for the first time, this was something he genuinely wasn't good enough at. He. Just. Was. Not. Good. Enough.

Nothing to blame, nothing to regret.

Everything to accept.

And now, he knew, Kurt would be going without him. He would be staying, trapped in Lima for another year. And he was pretty sure it was going to be absolute hell.

But this was what was right for _him_. There was a him as well as a them, he now knew, and he needed an Ivy League education, he just did. And even though a year was a long time, and he had a lot to learn.

And not all of it from a book.

And as he sat there in Emma Pillsbury's office, tears on his face and a man in his arms, he realised needed to grow up and grow down all at the same time.

And that would be the hardest thing ever. Because whatever happens to you, good or bad, it only lasts for a second. It's the present, sure, but as soon as you grasp it, it becomes the past. A moment becomes a memory, growing large in your mind and converting itself into habits of self-preservation and experience and wisdom. These, rather than the years themselves, are what make you _old_.

But if you're too old, that means you can't be young.

And that's a bad thing if you happen to still be in high school.

It was, Blaine realised, a very, very significant problem to be both old and young at the same time. It was Kurt's problem too, when it came down to it: he was too old to be self-conscious, too young to know his boundaries, too old to be class president, too young to realise that applying to only one school could potentially land him in serious trouble.

And it was the biggest danger to them as a _them_: they were too young to commit yet old enough to know that this, this thing between them, was very special. They were young people, scarred enough to be old beyond their years yet young enough that they were about to be thrown into the most tumultuous time of their lives, and it was really, really hard. Underneath their skin they were two Benjamin Buttons, grasping on tightly to the only person they had met who understood exactly what it all was like.

But everything on the outside seemed determined to tear them at their seams, the vulnerable places where the coloured thread of their pasts bound them together in fragile but long-standing stitches.

They loved each other, they really did. So much it hurt.

But sometimes, that just isn't enough.

* * *

><p><strong>AN  
><strong>

**Now only one chapter left.**

**I can't believe it's ending :(**

**Sob.**

**PS 'Sicut cervus desiderat' by Palestrina, Blaine's last hurrah to the Dalton choir, can be heard on my tumblr (APOE Bonus Material tab) or on YouTube. It is beautiful. And no matter how many windows you have it playing in (starting at different points), it sounds absolutely amazing.**


	33. A Parade of Elephants

**Chapter 33: A Parade of Elephants**

It was hard. It was really, really hard. Everything had been so hard. But now especially. Because it was the middle of the summer and arid and so dry, and the walk had been long and the air was dusty and the breeze was nothing more than a wall of blisteringly hot air. The sweat on his chest glued his necklace onto his heart, and his hands felt clammy under the late afternoon sun.

And he was smiling so wide he thought his face might break.

* * *

><p>It had taken so long to get there. Seven years, almost to the day. Blaine still remembered how Kurt had graduated and left for New York (for fashion instead of Broadway), how he'd wanted to put a ring on his finger right then and there and hold onto him forever. Kurt had left anyway, going up up into the sky on a one-way trip to the City. Blaine had waved at every plane for an hour, his heart aching, just to make sure he'd said goodbye in every way possible.<p>

At first, it had been okay. They'd skyped and chatted and Blaine had even visited once or twice when he'd gone for college open days and interviews. And Kurt had been really supportive that Blaine had suddenly changed his mind and gone for Law in the end, and had introduced him to all his law student friends. They were all devastatingly cool and interesting and outgoing: one of them had lived in Brazil, another knew all about French cooking, two of them (a couple) had gone backpacking together in the Andes. Sitting on Kurt's dorm room bed in his bow tie and stripy shirt, Blaine had never felt younger. Or more like a boring old grandpa.

And then classes really started and Kurt's workload piled up, fabric upon fabric upon garment upon garment, and Blaine's deadlines came and went and he was too tired to stay up and skype Kurt at night. And no matter what they did, it just seemed impossible. Blaine no longer knew Kurt's friends or what he was doing or _anything_, because neither of them really had time to be online anymore. And when they did talk, he felt like he didn't even know _Kurt_: the City had made him stronger and yet more independent, and now he knew all about grocery shopping and bills and the New York Subway system. He was grown up. And one time over the phone he had jokingly called Blaine clingy because he was worrying so much. But it wasn't really a joke. Not at all.

But they stayed together anyway.

And then Blaine's college acceptance letters began to come, first from NYU and then Oberlin and then, wow, Columbia and then, two days later when he'd hardly believed things could get better, the one he had really wanted.

Yale. Said. Yes.

Michael had cried when Blaine told him, sweeping him up in the biggest, least awkward hug ever. "I always knew," he said, "I always, _always_ knew, but I was terrified all those bullies would have stopped you but they didn't and I'm so, so proud of you."

And Blaine knew he had to go: it was his real dream, when he really examined himself. At Yale, there would be the tough academic rigor he needed and all the music he could hope for and then, at the end, he'd be a lawyer. And yes, music _was _a passion but he wanted this, he needed it. And Kurt and Kurt's absence and, weirdly, the people at McKinley had all given him the confidence to follow it.

But he'd have to tell Kurt.

It started simply: yes, he'd gotten into Columbia. Kurt shrieked and started planning and listing everywhere they'd go and do and…

"But I got into Yale as well."

And then the line had gone silent. Blaine almost thought Kurt had hung up.

But then he spoke up. He was very quiet. "Blaine, that is absolutely amazing. Congratulations. No one deserves it more than you." He paused. "You're going to go there, aren't you?"

"Yes."

And then Kurt started sobbing into the phone.

"Why are you crying?"

"Blaine, you've got to accept that offer. You've got to."

"I already have."

Kurt took a deep breath and continued to cry.

"Okay, now at least you can't change it because of me."

"What do you mean?"

Kurt took a breath. "I can't do this any more, Blaine. I love you and I promise you I've been totally committed, but I can't do this. Not for four more years. This isn't working, this long distance thing. It's neither of our faults, well… it's both of our faults. But it is too hard and I can't just keep doing this, I can't. It's taking a toll on both of us. And I don't want everything to end in a massive argument, I really don't. I still want you in my life, I can't just throw you away. And if you'd decided on Columbia, well, I guess… I guess things might be different but I can't be apart from you for four more years and… just, I'm sorry."

Silence.

"So have we… have we broken up?" Blaine asked, trying to keep his voice together. Happiness to sadness in one breath.

"Umm, I think so."

"Okay."

Silence.

"It's not as bad as I thought it'd be," Kurt said, suddenly conversational.

"No. It isn't," Blaine lied. It had only been about thirty seconds and he missed Kurt being his boyfriend already.

More silence.

"So," Kurt began again, horrendously casual, "Did anyone else get into Yale?"

"Umm, no…. they…." Blaine tailed off. He swallowed heavily before taking a breath. "Um, Kurt, I don't really feel like talking… like, we just broke up."

"I thought you said you were okay? I'm okay."

"Well I'm not," Blaine said.

And then he put the phone down.

* * *

><p>Blaine hated it. He still texted Kurt, still called him sometimes. In fact, he probably knew more about Kurt's life in New York now than he had in the months before the break up. And Kurt always made sure to tell him <em>everything<em>. He tried weed. He stayed out for two days.

And he had loads of sex.

And that was probably what hurt Blaine most. Because it really showed that they were over.

And Kurt was still the only guy he'd ever slept with.

And it continued that way, for maybe two or three months.

But then, after a phone call in which Kurt gave Blaine a long description of yet another disappointing lay, something in Blaine clicked. He wanted _revenge_.

So he went out to Scandals and got hideously drunk on cocktails and wine and then took home the first guy who offered. He was gone before Blaine had even woken up in the morning, the messy room and empty condom wrappers the only clue as to what had happened the previous night. Blaine hadn't even known the guy's name.

And something, maybe the lingering alcohol burning his throat or maybe the tiredness and hurt and shame, made him choose that particular moment to call Kurt.

So he dialled the number he committed to memory more than two years before.

"Blaine, it's eight am on a Saturday and I'm hungover, fuck off."

"Kurt? Kurt! Guess what, I just slept with a guy from Scandals."

"What? Seriously? Did you use protection?" Kurt eventually whispered onto the silent line.

"Yeah, yeah of course," Blaine said, "One night stand. It was amazing."

"…Riiiiight… And you are telling me this because?"

"Well you always tell me."

"Only when they're really bad."

Oh. _Oh._

"Oh. Um. Right. So sometimes they're really good?"

"Well, yeah, I guess so. I mean… yeah."

Blaine gulped.

"Um, Kurt?"

"Yeah?"

"It actually wasn't that good. I lied."

"Um… okay Blaine." Kurt paused. "Wait, you're sure you were safe though?"

"Yeah. But, like, it wasn't good, you know, like…"

"It's always better with feelings."

"Yeah," Blaine said, tears threatening to spill from his eyes. "Yeah, I think that was what was missing."

* * *

><p>And so they went on. Kurt got a boyfriend called Pavel. He could barely speak English, Kurt told Blaine, but he was good in bed and very nice. And then Blaine saw a picture on Kurt's Facebook and understood <em>exactly<em> why Kurt was with Pavel. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. _Tall_. He seethed in anger as he read the 'I 3 you' captions.

They split up like three weeks later. It was nothing.

But something inside Blaine had broken when he'd seen Kurt throw his love out so easily to someone else.

* * *

><p>It took two whole years in the end, Kurt in New York and Blaine in New Haven. Class and choir and assignments and exams and new friends.<p>

And yet, amid all the bustle, Blaine could pinpoint the exact beginning of the rebeginning. It was a phone call, that was all, taken as he ran from class to a rehearsal of his vocal sextet.

"Blaine?"

"Kurt!"

"Um. Yeah. Hi. Weird question for you."

"Mmm?"

"Um, yeah, um, do you want to come to Italy with me? I got invited to a 'Rising Stars' fashion event in Naples."

"Well DUH. When? Oh, and congratulations by the way."

"Thanks. And, um, it's next week. Sorry it's so last minute, things tend to run that way in the world of fashion."

Blaine ran through his schedule. Choir(s). Five assignments. Shitloads of reading.

Oh well.

"Yeah, I'm so there!"

"Um, you're my plus one so we'd have to share a room and stuff. Are you okay with that?"

"Yeah, yeah, fine, totally."

And that, along with a swift call to a coursemate who'd promised to tell the course convenor that Blaine had a kidney infection, was that.

And Blaine was flying out to Naples on a plane the very next Monday.

With one Kurt Hummel in the seat next door.

* * *

><p>They should have known, they absolutely should have known. Because they had dated for a long time, and known each other for even longer than that. <em>And<em> they'd spent the last three days together, walking around the sights and going to a few fashion events. Everything should have told them that Blaine + Kurt + Alcohol = Waking up next to each other, bleary eyed and cuddling close.

But that didn't stop them from over-indulging on Lacryma Christi wine and limoncello.

Blaine vaguely remembered them struggling down the narrow Neapolitan streets, breathing in the dry air and faint smells of delicious Italian cooking.

And then, after they'd _finally _negotiated the rusty lock with the hotel's slightly bent key, they tumbled into their shabby whitewashed room. And then tumbled into the double bed. And then fumbled with the zipper of a hidden pocket deep in Kurt's rucksack. And then tumbled into each other's arms.

* * *

><p>They woke up, bleary eyed and cuddling close. Blaine's throat felt like it had been sanded down by a troll's fingernails, and Kurt's eyes were drooping, lidded and heavy.<p>

"Um, Blaine, did we have sex?" Kurt eventually whispered.

"Hmmm?" said Blaine, still asleep and/or drunk enough to kind of think they were still together. A kind of muscle-memory.

"Sex. Did we have it?"

"Yeah," Blaine said, cuddling Kurt closer. "Was good."

And then he froze.

"Shit. We broke up."

"Yeah, we did."

"That sucks."

"Yeah."

Silence. They moved around in the sheets a bit, trying to move apart but remain close.

"You're still holding me. Like you used to," Kurt murmured.

Blaine gulped, alcohol coursing through his body as he tried and failed to catch the truth before it spilled out from between his lips.

"Well, I still love you. Like I used to. Probably more," he whispered. He reached out to touch Kurt's hair, faltering at the last moment before deciding to go for it.

Kurt just blinked at him.

"I love you too." His face was pretty much expressionless, like it was no surprise. Except his eyes. His eyes were smiling. "I miss you every day."

"What should we do?"

Blaine wanted Kurt to sweep him off his feet, to say they'd drop out of college and cuddle and kiss and lie there forever.

But Kurt was pragmatic. "Well you're in New Haven and I'm in New York."

"Yeah."

"And we're clearly in this for the long haul. Like, the long _long_ hall."

"Yeah."

A few beats of silence.

"I think we're back together," Kurt said. "But we need to wait. Until we have no distractions and live together and get married. Otherwise we'll despise each other."

Oh, it turned out they were on the same page after all.

"Too bad we had to break up first," Blaine commented.

"Au contaire," Kurt replied, stroking his fingers over Blaine's chest. "I think we needed this time apart. We're more grown up. And you're less clingy."

Blaine pouted. "I'm not clingy, I'm just affectionate."

Kurt rolled his eyes good-humouredly. "Yeah, right."

"I _am_."

Kurt cuddled Blaine close anyway. "This has been a good morning after," he concluded. "One of the very best."

"Mmmm."

They cuddled for a few more moments.

"Anyway," Kurt suddenly announced, "We should get up and look at Pompeii. When in Naples…"

"Yeah. We should."

And so they walked around those ruins, hand in hand, right under Vesuvius. They saw the fountains and the tiles, peeled good as new from the layers of ash. And then they saw the casts of the people, caught mid-death and preserved in situ forever. There was a dog, people stretched out gasping for air, babies curled up, asphyxiated to sleep.

"You think it's weird to look at this?" Kurt asked. "To look down at that plaster cast. That's a person, in the position they were in right as they died. All you see of them is this personal moment, their death."

Blaine looked, considering it.

"That's how I used to see Orrin, in my head," he said.

Kurt looked at him, his eyes moving from the ruins into the gaze of his man. Listening.

And, against all previous form, Blaine continued.

"No matter what I did, the thing that always stuck with me most was how I held his hand in the ambulance, you know, right when he died. That last flicker of life behind his eyes. That was one of the biggest problems, that all my memories of our past revolved around what was to happen next."

Kurt nodded. "Yes, exactly."

"But now I just love him for what I had."

Kurt squeezed Blaine's hand, understanding completely. "Yeah. That's all you can do. Sucks. But yeah."

And then they walked. Pompeii, Herculaneum, museums, pizza.

And they were back.

* * *

><p>Kurt graduated first, obviously. Blaine was there at the graduation yet again, but this time Kurt wasn't crying. Instead, his face lit up in a delighted grin. He had been offered a year-long internship, after all.<p>

Still in New York.

Still far from Blaine.

But only a year. And Kurt was earning a living so he could afford to visit Blaine, who made time around kicking butt on his law papers and collegiate choirs and just generally being an archetypal Yale boy. Kurt found it very sexy, really.

And again people were rooting for them. It was so cute, they said, that they'd been together since high school. They were made for each other. When was the wedding?

And they fought a bit, because now they were grown-ups who had realised that they _were _separate entities from one another. The arguments, which were seldom really serious, were just there to establish compromise. So each of them could get what they wanted without upsetting the other too much.

And then Blaine graduated. And Kurt cried. Because it was an amazing, amazing achievement.

And Michael Anderson, by now somewhat haggard around the eyes, cried too.

And so did Karen, obviously.

* * *

><p>It was as if life had been holding off the crazy until they were out of college. First they moved in together in New York, which was a slap in the face of people and noise and music and smells and gay pride parades that took several months of readjustment. Blaine got a job in a law firm, Kurt as an assistant at Vera Wang. All good.<p>

Happy.

And then, in the middle of the night, right as if he'd been trying to cause one last act of nuisance, Blaine's grandfather died. The phone had rung beside their bed at three AM and they'd just looked at each other, absolutely terrified.

And Blaine had watched as Kurt had reached for the phone. Tears in his eyes. Because life always kicked them in the ass.

"Hello?"

Phone noise daksdnmkas.

Kurt's body relaxed.

"Oh. Okay. Thank you. I'll tell him. Bye."

Weird.

"Um, Blaine, your grandfather died about an hour ago."

Blaine didn't feel anything.

"Right."

"Are you sad?"

"Not really. I'm just happy, well, _relieved_, it wasn't… you know, anyone else."

Kurt reached across for him. "Me too."

"I guess I am sad that all those fucking anti-gay organisations get all his money but what can you do? Things will be different when I'm in charge."

"What?" Kurt murmured sleepily.

"Nothin'," Blaine replied, snuggling up.

"Love you."

"You too."

* * *

><p>The next weird thing happened about two weeks later, right before half the senators were about to start gearing up for reelection. Kurt and Blaine had CNN on, partly because Blaine had developed a mysterious obsession with the news and partly because Kurt liked the 'exaggerated office-chic' of the newsreaders' clothes.<p>

And then, under the botoxed faces of the man (Rolf) and the woman (Laura), they saw it. Flickering, barely there, but so totally important.

_SENATOR ANDERSON OF OHIO CALLS FOR THE NATIONWIDE LEGALIZATION OF GAY MARRIAGE._

And they watched, dumbstruck, as Rolf and Laura devoured the issue down to its bare bones. They analysed Mike Anderson's voting record, the record of the Republican Party in general, the senator's motives. They didn't really come up with anything, as newscasters often don't.

"Now we go live to Washington, to talk to Senator Anderson."

Kurt cuddled up to Blaine. "This is totally bizarre. Why didn't he tell you?"

"Dunno," said Blaine. "In case you haven't noticed, he's super weird."

And Michael's face popped up on the screen, right there in front of them. Blaine could tell he was nervous from the way he fiddled with his cuffs. Mainly because he did that too.

And then the smile was whipped out, wide and charming. Blaine watched as his dad exuded absolute confidence under the newscasters' questions, saying that he had re-evaluated his previous position and felt it was his _civil duty _to bring this particular cause back into the public's consciousness.

"Does this have anything to do with the passing of your father?" Rolf asked. "He bequeathed vast amounts of money to anti-homosexual organisations. Something like seven million in the end, correct?"

"Yes, the actual figure is a little less than that, but yes, absolutely. I want to make up for some of the problems that will inevitably be caused by that particular action."

The newscasters beamed, delighted to have been given a glimpse into a senator's personal life. The public would lap this up.

"Any other motivations? Like, the recent statements by other Republican representatives?" Laura asked.

Kurt and Blaine watched as Michael paused for a second. Blaine squeezed Kurt's arm. "He's deciding whether to talk about me," he whispered. "About us."

"How do you know?"

"We have very similar mannerisms when it comes dow –"

"Not really," TV Michael began to say, "I was not motivated by my colleagues. I try to remain solid and true to my own opinions as the Ohio electorate voted for _me_, not my colleagues. Other people in other states voted for them."

Laura nodded.

Michael swallowed. He looked deeply serious.

"I do, however, have a son. He just graduated from Yale Law School near the top of his class, and in his spare time he is an excellent singer and musician. And he is gay and is in a committed relationship with his long term boyfriend. All I want is to see them have equality, everywhere."

Rolf and Laura nodded, loving all the personal gossip they were harvesting. They probably felt they'd weedled it out of him, but Blaine knew it had been a calculated decision. He smiled as Michael didn't even blink at the word 'boyfriend'.

"You must be very proud of your son, Mike, to do all this for him."

"Oh, well. Yes, of course. But it isn't just for him, because my son has survived it all. He is an adult. But I have seen what inequality can do, right with these two eyes. My son was gay bashed really badly, you know. You hear it on the news, but you never think it's on your doorstep. But he was assaulted right outside his public school, and his friend was murdered in front of his eyes. And do you know what that does to a kid? I'd say he's only been back to himself in the last few months. It's been an _eight year _recovery. How can I square that? I have to say something, even if it isn't the most politically expedient cause I could go for. Because even if we think that gay marriage isn't really an important issue, it is. Because inequality on any level perpetuates these kind of assaults and murders. If I may be so bold, it sort of _validates _them."

"Totally," Rolf wittered.

"But I have to ask, why now?" Laura cut in. "Why not when your son was younger?"

Blaine could tell that this was the kind of incisive question his father had been expecting.

"Laura, you have to understand that as a politician, you always have to square your personal beliefs with those of your electorate. You are, after all, their representative. You also have to have a certain candour about you, a certain gravitas, to put an issue like this forward into the public forum. I have now been in government for almost two decades. I should be the person putting something like this out there."

Rolf nodded.

"Unfortunately, we are out of time," Laura said. "Thank you for joining us, Senator Mike Anderson."

"Thank _you_," Michael said.

And the screen faded to commercials.

Blaine looked over at Kurt. "What the actual fuck was that?"

"That," Kurt replied, "Was your father announcing his retirement from politics."

Blaine laughed, mainly because he didn't want to cry. "Your cynicism is charming. And probably correct. But that was still a really brave thing for him to do."

"Yeah," said Kurt. "Too bad it's like a decade too late."

"Better late than never," Blaine replied, sighing.

And then his cellphone began to ring.

Michael.

"Son, were you watching?"

"Yup. Kurt and I both watched it. I'm a little, you know, _surprised_."

"Was it okay?"

"Duh, yes."

"Good."

"You're retiring, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Thought so."

Silence.

"Son, gotta go. Bye."

"Bye."

Blaine cuddled up to Kurt. "Weirdest phone conversation ever."

"Mmm, totally."

And they fell asleep on the couch.

* * *

><p>For some reason, Kurt was really uptight when they were flying back to Ohio for Michael Anderson's retirement party six months later. He couldn't even stomach the complimentary in-flight drink. Weird.<p>

And when the cab dropped them right in front of the freshly painted iron gates of the Anderson house, Kurt was twitching. Actually twitching.

Blaine grabbed his hand.

"Sorry I'm so on-edge, I'm just worried about, you know, setting a foot wrong in front of your parents' high-power friends."

Blaine giggled. "Shush you. Also, there probably won't be too many influential people there. They probably only wanted to be best friends with him while he had the power of a senator."

But as they looked in through the doorway, hand in hand, Blaine realised he had been deeply wrong. The house was full to bursting with family friends, politicians, people from the street, people from _Glee Club_, Kurt's step mom and dad. Francine was there too, lips bigger than ever. Blaine could hear Kurt laughing in his head, even though both of their expressions were schooled into a blank, polite gaze.

And then Karen spotted them, running right up before stopping. She looked down at their entwined fingers, and grinned.

Blaine realised they'd never really seen him show casual affection to Kurt. Unless you count that one time they walked in on their make out session. Which Blaine still tried to forget with every ounce of his being.

"Hi Kurt, Hi Blaine. Kiss." And she opened up her arms and engulfed the two of them. "I missed both of you so much. My two boys."

And then Michael came over and shook their hands and announced to everyone that Kurt and Blaine had arrived.

"Let the buffet begin!" Karen said, and everyone headed outside where there was a massive table, maybe seven metres long, piled high with food. It must've cost a fortune.

And everyone sat around one large table outside. It was made of several long tables pushed together, and formed a gigantic 'W' shape on the lawn. Kurt was sat next to Blaine who was sat next Michael who was sat next to Karen who was sat next to Carole who was sat next to Burt, and there were balloons and the smell of the barbeque and the noise and chatter of family and friends.

Michael tapped on his wine glass for order, and everyone hushed down into silence. He thanked everyone who had voted for him, everyone who had come to the party, everyone who hadn't come. He thanked Karen and Blaine and Kurt.

"And now Kurt would like to say a few words."

Blaine just gaped at Kurt, who rose up from his seat just as Michael sat down.

"Um, hi everyone," Kurt said with a sheepish wave. "Well, as you may or may not know, I'm Blaine's boyfriend." Blaine noticed that the guests either fidgeted or hummed with approval, depending on their leanings. But when Kurt looked straight into his eyes, he didn't notice anyone any more. Only Kurt. "Anyway, we've been together for almost nine years and I love him very, very much. So, I have to ask him a question."

Blaine was still confused.

"How are you perplexed about this? You're a _Yale graduate_!" Kurt hissed jokingly.

Ripples of laughter lapped at Blaine's consciousness.

"Well, anyway, this should make things a bit clearer."

He sunk onto one knee.

And pulled out a velvety, purple ring box. Everyone fell into a hushed silence.

"Blaine, I can't imagine anything without you. I love you so much. I'm so proud of you and us and I want to be with you forever."

Blaine was already crying and nodding before Kurt even asked, "Will you marry me?"

But just to be sure, he yelled "YES" and then kissed Kurt hard on the mouth.

And then, after about thirty seconds, he remembered they had company, and lots of it. He turned sheepishly and saw most people around the table grinning. Some people looked a bit disgusted, some looked shellshocked, but most were smiling widely. Burt was crying. So was Karen. And so was he.

And then Kurt pulled out one of the rings in the box and put it on Blaine's finger.

And as the true showman he was, he half turned to his audience and quipped, "And this, ladies and gentlemen, is how I know my Yale-educated fiancé is really a bit of a dummy. Remember three weeks ago when your dad visited New York?"

"Um, yeah."

"Remember when he said he had to measure your fingers for a scientific experiment?"

"Yeah."

"And you believed it without question because deep down in that clever noggin of yours, you're really a bit silly and gullible."

"Yes?"

"Well, this was why he measured your finger."

And everyone laughed.

"_Oh_," said Blaine, smiling. "Well, it was the best surprise ever. And I was tired, okay? Usually I'm as perceptive as a ninja CIA agent."

Kurt rolled his eyes and everyone laughed.

Michael stood. "Congratulations to both Kurt and Blaine. Three cheers!"

And then there was food and dancing and slight drunkenness and happiness and karaoke and several Rachel Berry solos and fireworks and a projector screen showing images of Michael's career.

And then, at the end of the day, Kurt and Blaine were in bed, in Blaine's old room.

"You haven't taken it off yet, have you?"

"Nope," said Blaine, stroking the smooth platinum of the ring with his right index finger. "I like it too much."

"Well, you should. Look inside."

Blaine slowly edged the ring off his finger and peered inside. And then he gasped. Because inside was engraved a pair of elephants, their trunks intertwined into a heart.

"They've followed you around long enough," Kurt said, "May as well bring it into your marriage as well. Elephants love forever, after all."

Blaine smiled. "Where's your ring?"

"In the box."

"Can I put it on you?"

Kurt looked at him and nodded, before getting up to fetch the ring from his tux pocket. Blaine sighed happily as he watched his fiancé's naked form cross the room, fumble in the jacket pocket and then come back to bed.

Kurt handed Blaine the ring box, and he prised the matching silver ring out of the velvet and then slowly slid it onto Kurt's finger. And then, after setting the box carefully aside, he leant up to kiss Kurt on the lips. It was tentative, hands ghosting over shoulders and chests and then Kurt's back as he slowly brought him down so he was lying on top of him. Still kissing, his hands slowly ran down Kurt's back. He made sure the ring was in constant contact with Kurt's skin.

"I love you," he whispered. "So much."

"I know," Kurt said, "I love you so much too."

Blaine kissed him again before a thought struck him and he broke away.

"Do you think my parents will care if we have sex in their house?"

Kurt shrugged. "Probably not. They can't think we haven't… you know. And it's not like we haven't done it here before."

"But not with them actually at home."

They kissed again.

"I'm pretty sure they thought we were having sex when they walked in on us making out so…"

Blaine sat up straight. "Shit. But we weren't even doing –"

"Blaine," Kurt said, "You're twenty-four. It's fine. And we just got engaged."

"Well, since you made your point so well, I suppooooose it would be okay," Blaine replied.

And that was that.

* * *

><p>They got married two years later, in New York, with all their friends and family around them. Kurt had wanted to save up so they could afford the most lavish wedding ever, and he'd made sure the entire reception hall (which overlooked the Hudson) was completely decked out in pink and white flowers. Blaine had put his foot down when Kurt had suggested they get live doves, though.<p>

They exchanged their vows and everyone cheered. The room was warm with acceptance and love, their college friends mingling with their Glee friends mingling with some of the Cremona people Blaine couldn't quite bring himself to shake off. And Peter was there, now a successful banker in the City, and so were Wes and David and a few of the other Warblers Blaine didn't despise. Oh, and Alban Blake was there, recently widowed. His hair was whiter than ever, every ounce of colour drained from it after the loss of both his son and his wife. Robin was backpacking in South America, he said, completely broken after losing his mom and his brother so young. Kurt and Blaine decided they'd make a special effort to reach out to him.

And then they danced late into the night. On and on to all their favourite songs, sung by their friends, old and new.

And then, when the night was over, they went to bed in their hotel room and held each other close, hardly believing that they were here, married, after everything that had happened.

But after it was over and they were sleepily holding each other in the middle of the night, Kurt knew there was something bothering his husband. Luckily, years of dealing with this kind of thing meant he always had his ways of teasing out the truth.

"I'm sad about Alban," Blaine eventually admitted.

"Mmm," said Kurt, wholly unsurprised, "It's really shitty how bad things happen to good people, huh? And yet your asshole grandfather lived to be a happy ninety-six."

"I don't think he was really happy. He couldn't have been. All his so-called friends were fakes who just wanted a slice of his will. He liked the war, though. Probably loved spraying all that Agent Orange everywhere, the nasty fucker."

"Yeah," said Kurt. "Probably."

"Are you happy?" Blaine asked, eyes wide and bright in the dark as he took in every aspect of Kurt's face.

"Happier than I've ever been in my whole life," Kurt replied, kissing Blaine on the cheek.

Blaine cuddled him closer. "Mmm, me too."

They held each other tight, silent for a few minutes.

"Round two?" Kurt eventually whispered.

"Few more minutes. I'm pretty overwhelmed by it all to be honest."

"Okay, old man," Kurt giggled, running his hands over Blaine's back. "Two minutes. That is all."

* * *

><p>Kurt organised the honeymoon. Of course he did. And he didn't tell Blaine where they were going until they were there, at Newark, ready to jet off to somewhere far away. That was all Kurt had said, that it was far away. Because Blaine needed a decently packed in-flight bag, with all the correct skin creams and hand gels and stuff. Even though Kurt always packed that kind of thing for him anyway.<p>

He knew he'd always remember it, standing right there in front of the departure boards as Kurt's eyes scanned it for updates. Blaine watched as Rome, Vienna, Salzberg and even Rio flickered on and off the screen.

And then, after they'd waited for about half an hour, Kurt gripped his hand.

"That's us," he whispered. "Gate 42."

And Blaine's eyes scanned the board over the likely suspects: London Heathrow (Gate 12), Budapest Liszt Ferenc (Gate 34), Paris Charles de Gaulle (Gate Pending), until he saw it.

Gate 42. United Airlines. To Nairobi, Kenya.

"What the actual fuck, Kurt?" Blaine said.

"We're going on safari!" Kurt squealed, bouncing up and down.

"But… but you hate that kind of thing. Outdoorsy things."

"It's a five star safari, dummy. No tents for us. Pools and air con all the way. And don't worry about the gay thing, we'll just have to be careful and push some beds together."

And Blaine was suddenly so, so, _so _excited. The plane couldn't get there fast enough.

* * *

><p>Check-in, bed for the night at the Nairobi InterContinental, sleep, breakfast, check-out, jeep out to the countryside, check-in at the Mara Serena Safari Lodge, afternoon nap, hour-long trek with a gamekeeper.<p>

And that was how they got there.

To this sandy mound in the middle of the Serengeti.

It was early evening, and the sun was setting behind the dark fingers of the acacia trees. It was by now red and heavy in the sky, casting long shadows right behind them that draped back over their footsteps, hiding them from the light. The air was dense and alive with insects, which buzzed around their ears as sweat gathered at their temples, and the slight breeze did nothing but cocoon them in a cylinder of hot air.

But they didn't care.

Because right in the distance, they saw them, tiptoeing their way across the horizon.

Real and alive and wild and free.

A parade of elephants.

"They're even more beautiful in real life," Blaine whispered, his fingers ghosting over Kurt's shirt cuff. "I can't bel – I can't believe I'm here."

"I love you," Kurt whispered. "And I pictured this honeymoon for us since I was seventeen, so I'm glad you like it."

"I… I imagined it this way since I was little, the sun and the grass and the elephants. I used to play under my desk lamp so I would get hot, like in the desert."

Kurt smiled at him.

"I don't see how I can ever be happier than this," Blaine whispered.

Kurt grinned, his eyes twinkling bluer than ever in the sunset. "Anything's possible," he said. "Anything."

And Blaine grinned, watching as the elephants disappeared into the boiling sun.

"Thank you for everything," he said, squeezing Kurt's hand before drawing it away again. "Love you."

"I love you too."

And that, apart from the births of his two children, his wedding day, his election to Congress and the launch and good reception of Kurt's label, was the happiest day of Blaine Anderson-Hummel's life.

* * *

><p><strong>THE END<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>AN So it's done, almost a year after I started it. I can't believe the length or the readership or even the fact that I managed to finish it, but here we are in summer 2012, 150,000 words later! Thank you so much for sticking with me through the long gaps between updates and for discussing the issues presented in the story in such lively debate on both PM and tumblr; I've loved all your feedback and getting to know so many of you. **

**I can barely even remember not having this story in my life and thoughts, and I will certainly miss it terribly. I feel like I've put a lot of myself into it, and to know that there are others who share my weird sense of humour (and, more seriously, some of my darker thoughts and general outlook on life) is an inexplicable feeling. The sheer range of people reading this story amazes me and I've had hits from places as diverse as Argentina, New Zealand, South Korea, India and France. It is one of my greatest ambitions to travel the world and, as cheesy as it sounds, this story makes me feel like in a small way I already have.**

**I am so grateful to everyone who has subscribed, favourited and reviewed: you are all so kind and generous, and you've definitely helped me improve my writing. Looking back at the first chapter sort of makes me cringe a bit but I've decided against changing it because I kind of like that it shows that process and that it's a bit rough around the edges. I hope you'll agree.**

**Thank you for reading, thank you for favouriting, thank you for alerting, thank you for reccing on tumblr and thank you for commenting. And super thank yous to evviejo and Laure for translating! You can keep in touch by tumblr (mrssosostris . tumblr . com - remove spaces) or by author alert and PM, whatever you want. My new story, The View from Nowhere, is also here on FFnet, as is my one-shot, Stories from the Staircase.**

**Thanks one again for your kindness and friendship.  
><strong>

**Over and out xxxxxx**


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